


happiness, like those palaces in fairy tales

by philthestone



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Gen, LETS GO!!, do i have any regrets? not a single one, this is a cross between a gilmore girls and parks and recreation au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-16
Updated: 2018-12-05
Packaged: 2019-08-24 16:04:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 28,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16643396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philthestone/pseuds/philthestone
Summary: At the heart of an unassuming French village, Constance Baudin is the sole owner of the worn-down inn her late parents left her. Her life isn’t anywhere near boring, what with her only tenants being her four regulars: Mother Superior the old church librarian and a trio of former soldiers that take the form of three utterly ridiculous young men. Pair this with gossipy neighbors, her boyfriend’s terrible new mustache, and the romantical yearnings of her best friend the mayor’s wife, and there’s never a moment’s quiet. The inn is barely holding together at the seams, but Constance knows she can manage, so long as she works hard and remains sensible.All sensibility goes out the window the day an unfamiliar boy crashes into her front lobby, gets into a fight with three of her guests, kisses her full on the mouth, and is nearly framed for murder all in the span of an hour. And when a mysterious Woman in expensive-looking heels and dazzling red lipstick shows up not a week later, asking for the boy, Constance realizes that she’s about to get all the adventure she secretly craved as a plot far thicker than anything she’d have expected begins to unravel right under her nose.





	1. PROLOGUE: ENTER D'ARTAGNAN

**Author's Note:**

> you guys!!! i am SO excited to post this! i've been working on it for so so long and it's nearly half-written, but it's also going to be my first REAL attempt at a chapter story that's INTENDED to be a chapter story (and not one that was meant to be a fic and just ... got away from me lol).
> 
> I'm going to try to update once a week for as long as I can. This is a ridiculous au on paper, yes, but i think at least some of you will love reading it as much as i've loved writing it! 
> 
> The title is adapted from one of my favorite Dumas quotes, as found in The Count of Monte Cristo, that reads, "Happiness is like those palaces in fairy tales whose gates are guarded by dragons: we must fight in order to conquer it." 
> 
> Reviews are love!!! enjoy!!!

**PROLOGUE: ENTER D’ARTAGNAN**

Constance Baudin is not the sort of person who is swayed by a pretty face.

“I am _not_ ,” Constance tells the boy in front of her very resolutely, “the sort of person who is swayed by a pretty face.”

“I understand,” he says, sounding like he really doesn’t.

Of course, Constance cannot really blame him here -- “not the sort of person to be swayed by a pretty face” -- whatever does that _mean_ , Constance? She, personally, is not quite sure she understands; at least _he’s_ making an effort. Constance shakes herself very slightly and tries not to grimace. In front of her, the boy has started stammering.

“I mean -- not -- that’s not what --” The pink blossoming on his cheeks is very distracting. “I never meant to imply -- I just --” As is the climbing pitch of his voice. “I work really hard -- look, here, I have, a, a resume --”

Constance watches him fumble into his backpack, brown fingers scrabbling with a crumpled looking paper that Constance barely registers because she’s inexplicably fixated on the flush covering his cheeks. It’s darkening, and travelling up to his ears, which is different from how _her_ face flushes -- her ears are mercifully always spared, but the whole rest of her pinkens. It’s really quite a phenomenon, and very interesting that his blushing methodology is so different from hers --

“Here!”

She blinks, twice, and focuses on the resume that has just been thrust in her face.

“Hm,” says Constance, taking it from him.

“I promise I’ll work very hard,” says the boy, whom she’s never seen around town until just this morning.

“Hm,” says Constance.

“And I’m a very quiet and respectable tenant, I -- I never go out, or anything. Ever. I don’t even exist.”

“Hm,” says Constance.

“And I’m very sorry I kissed you out of the blue this morning,” he’s babbling now, decidedly, though Constance thinks vaguely that she _understands_. “Only there was a strange lady who had framed me for murder and the old woman who owns the only other bed and breakfast in town nearly got me arrested -- this isn’t helping my case at all, I’m aware -- but I really thought I ought to apologize.”

“Hm,” says Constance.

“I’m sorry,” he says, apologizing. A man of his word, it seems. That’s good, thinks Constance, even if he does have holes in his running shoes. She does not say this aloud; what she does say is,

“Hm.”

“And,” he finishes, somewhat weakly, “I’m sorry I got into a fight with the Deputy Inspector. And two of your tenants. In the lobby.”

Constance was really planning on saying something other than “Hm,” here, but she cannot think of a word suitable enough to convey how she feels.

“Hm,” says Constance.

“I’m just going to go now,” says the boy, who had introduced himself as d’Artagnan and was, in Constance’s opinion, far too pretty for his own good, and, _had_ , indeed, kissed her that morning outside of the door to the diner, _and_ gotten into a fight with three of her tenants in the lobby _and_ , she is realizing now, is wearing a _Star Wars_ t-shirt, which Constance secretly thinks is very nice and she wouldn’t mind owning herself.

That’s a point against him, really.

“Well,” says Constance. “If you tell me where you got your t-shirt, I’ll give you the job. And the room.”

His face -- and indeed, his whole body, considering the way his shoulders sag -- breaks out into a relieved grin that could only be called blinding. It pulls his mouth open wide and honest and lopsided on his face, the type of grin that shows just a bit of teeth and makes its recipient feel as though the grinner doesn’t quite have the emotional fortitude to put their all into the involuntary expression of relief; perhaps they have had a trying day, or are recovering from a sudden scare. For example, Constance thinks, a person who had just this morning been framed for murder, gotten into a fistfight with some strangers and kissed a random young inn-owner in the middle of the sidewalk whilst she walked home from the grocery store, would sport such a grin. To be certain, a full smile, with full teeth, might actually hurt one’s face when there’s a nice purple bruise blossoming on one’s left cheek.

D'Artagnan, who is looking a little bit punch drunk -- getting punched does that to you, Constance supposes -- is still standing in front of her, sporting that same grin. Constance quite suddenly has the absurd thought that, despite its lopsided quality, it’s the sort of grin that people in novels describe as having the ability to make flowers grow. Only Constance isn’t a person in a novel, nor does she have any intention of writing any novels anytime soon, so she shoves that thought unceremoniously from her mind and decides that d'Artagnan has a sweet, trustable face and that she isn’t making a huge and terrible mistake.

Her very dear friend Anne has many dreams of writing novels, so perhaps that’s where Constance has picked this sort of thing up. Obviously, thinks Constance, that must be it. Normal people don’t consider other’s smiles in terms of flower-growth-ability.

“ _And_ ,” adds Constance, because she is trying to maintain a reputation, “present a resume that isn’t crumpled up, thanks.” She cocks her head, shoves the already-shoved-up sleeves of her sensible plaid shirt further up her elbows and wonders if he’d carried that backpack with the scuff at the base all the way with him from wherever-on-earth he hailed from. “You do have a non-crumpled copy, right? I’m not in the business of hiring people who don’t take their stationary seriously.”

“Oh,” he says, making a face that looks uncomfortable to make. Constance feels an odd pang of disappointment that the smile is gone. Bloody Anne. “Oh, yeah, ‘course -- I’ll go to the print shop right now, if you like.” He makes another face on top of the first face. “... Where is the print shop?”

Constance levels a resigned look at the determined image of Princess Leia hanging loosely over his general rib area.

“By the other bed and breakfast across town --” He pales a bit, and she frowns -- “Just have it by tomorrow, my boyfriend does accounts and he likes things to be tidy.”

His Faces smooth out to something softer, now, and a small smile tugs at his lips. Constance clears her throat very deliberately, wonders if she’s an utter idiot for so unsubtly mentioning Jacques's monotonous existence in her life, and continues to stare at Princess Leia. What an icon and inspiration, she thinks. Constance should really ask him again where he got his shirt.

“Thank you,” he says, voice full of something Constance can’t quite identify. “Truly, you have no idea how much this means. You _won’t_ regret it -- uh …?”

She tears her eyes away from Leia and suddenly finds herself biting back a smile despite herself. There’s a blush still lingering over the bruise on his left cheek. But -- his eyes are very kind.

(Anne would describe them as _earnest_ in one of the manuscripts, the ones that never see daylight but occasionally see the soft yellow lamp light of Constance’s bedside table, where they are meticulously read through and praised. Constance doesn’t know much about writing, but she _does_ know things about paying attention to the people you care about, which she does with great vigilance.)

“Constance,” says Constance, “Constance Baudin.”

He breaks out into another of those smiles, and sticks his hand out as though to shake hers.

She takes it; he has a very firm grip.

“You _won’t_ regret it, Constance,” he says, and Constance sighs, very minutely.

“I’m supposing you’re going to be confronted about this whole framed for murder business by the Inspector sometime soon then.”

“Most definitely,” says d'Artagnan, nodding up and down even as he continues to shake her hand, “it might end badly.”

He doesn’t _look_ like he’s secretly killed anyone, and anyway, the boys seemed to like him even after their lobby fist fight, so Constance only nods along with him and says,

“Well, get on with it,” because she must maintain her carefully cultivated reputation. “You can start in the kitchen. We need a person keeping the place clean, I guess.”

D'Artagnan flashes her another open smile and straightens up, slinging his backpack over the wrong arm such that it hangs at an angle over his torso. He salutes her, a full hand to his forehead, and steps backwards out of the room, which is very graceful and charming in theory but in reality he trips a little bit and has to flail his arms to keep his balance.

He’s been gone about a minute when Constance realizes that she’s smiling, like a _fool_.

Hasn’t she been saying all this while that this place could do with a bit of excitement?

( _Famous last words_ , says a cheerful voice in her head that sounds suspiciously like Aramis, which is exactly why Constance ignores it.)


	2. CHAPTER 1: A SHIFT IN THE UNIVERSE

**CHAPTER ONE: A SHIFT IN THE UNIVERSE**

Wednesday mornings are always a bit of a bustle, but a sort of comfortable, familiar one, where she’s decently busy enough to keep her feeling productive but she knows all the customers well enough that there’s no stress in the management of bodies.

Then again, Constance thinks that there’s hardly a soul in town that isn’t at least known by face by every other soul in town, which can be a terrible irritant at times, but when the correct souls are gathered around you, also really quite nice.

“Earl grey, one dash of skim milk, two sugars, and _would_ you care for your very plain croissant to go, Monsieur?”

“You are a Godsend, Constance,” says local pessimist, occasional town drunk, and her very dear friend the Deputy Inspector, who looks like he needs nothing short of an intravenous drip filled with straight caffeine far more than he does his usual cup of tea.

“I’m the owner of an inn,” says Constance, “and your landlady, Athos. Are you _sure_ I can’t force you to take some coffee? You look dead on your feet.”

“I am perfectly alright, thank you,” says Athos, as though he can actually keep his eyes open and had not been arrested only two weeks before because of a mix up at the Mayor’s office. Or up all night on a twenty-four hour shift. Or hungover.

Constance smacks her palms lightly against her diner countertop to a staccato tune and wonders where he found the time.

“Athos has a personal vendetta against coffee,” another voice informs her, two stools down the worn burgundy counter. “I’ve been trying to get to the bottom of it for _years_. Is it genetic? Does he have an allergy? Was he involved in a sordid affair where an old woman died due to coffee poisoning?”

“It is decidedly far too early in the morning to listen to you, Aramis,” says Athos, around the lip of his to-go cup.

Constance smiles and hums, halfway through tugging the dishtowel from her belt with the intention of wiping down the counter only to realize that the counter has already been wiped, to the point of sparkling. She frowns, very slightly, and then feels her head jerk around to the back at the faint sound of d’Artagnan humming some outdated French pop song and likely soaking up far too much water into the mop.

She thinks about how she has made it her greatest endeavour each day to ensure the counter gleams and the floors shine, and how Jacques always calls her a germaphobe for it in his prosaic, nasal voice.

She’s not a germaphobe, she’s explained to him multiple times. She’s just sensible, and orderly. The ceiling could crash down and she wouldn’t throw a fit, but since she’s got the time and the ability, it might as _well_ be clean and presentable. She’s worked too hard to be traded for Madame Joubert’s bed and breakfast for the sake of a smudged counter.

In the back, d’Artagnan’s humming spikes in volume and deteriorates badly in tone.

Constance straightens up and tucks her dishtowel back into her belt.

“I really think,” Aramis is telling her in a serious whisper, “that his involvement in an international spy network that unearthed a smuggling ring of illicitly-grown coffee beans is the reason for the aversion.” He taps his long fingers gracefully against the sides of his own mug. “That is truly the only reasonable explanation can think of.”

“Finish your hot chocolate, mister hot-shot detective, or you’ll be late and all the second graders will be coming up with shockingly more realistic theories as to your absence in their despair.”

Aramis grins at her, completely undeterred, and then without warning calls, “I feel safe every day knowing you’re out there stopping the crime in this corrupt city, my friend!”

“Fuck off, Aramis!” floats back through the bell’s tinkling as the door swings shut, without an ounce of inflection.

Constance, who has popped open the register to take another customer’s order, pauses in her counting of the coins to sigh.

“Sorry about that, love,” she tells the town's bent-over librarian, who works at the school on Mondays and Wednesdays and at the Church-run little library the rest of the week, as she passes over her regular stiff cup of black coffee. “I’ll tell Athos to mind himself a bit more.”

“The Lord gives us the ability to use strong language in extreme circumstance,” says the old woman, the line of her jaw jutting out as she raises her eyebrows significantly at Constance. “I admire a man who knows what he’s about.”

“Ah, Mother Superior, you always speak such words of wisdom,” says Aramis warmly, fishing into his cup with a fork for a stray marshmallow. Constance snorts and passes over her change, as well, which the old woman takes with a sharp nod. Constance is sure she has a real name, one that suits her equally well as the ancient nickname that seems to have existed for longer than the woman herself, but she’s never had the balls to ask.

Perhaps she can convince d’Artagnan to take one for the team, one of these days.

“You be sure to get to your classroom before that bell, René,” says Mother Superior with a look as practical as her starched grey blouse.

“On my honour,” vows Aramis, “so long as you stop calling me René, dear woman.”

“God gave us all names so we could use them,” she says loudly into the diner. “Good mornin’, Inspector Treville. You look well, thank His grace.”

“Thank you, Madame,” says Treville, bowing slightly, as he makes his way to the counter. And then blinks, his steps faltering, as though unsure as to why he bowed. The door swings shut with a tinkle behind him. He shakes himself, and clears his throat.

“A coffee, Constance --”

“Cream, no sugar, I’ve got you Captain.”

“I’m not a captain, as I’ve said infinite times before,” says Treville, looking nearly as tired as Athos did. His moustache, usually groomed to perfect symmetry, is looking somewhat lopsided, and his shrewd blue eyes somewhat more bleary than their usual sharp. “I’ve no idea where that nickname even came from.”

“Oh, that was all Porthos,” Aramis tells him, in the middle of smiling at a young woman with curly blonde hair on the other side of room. “Speaking of, _he’s_ running late this morning. Or no -- hasn’t he got the day off? I heard he actually had a _date_.”

“ _You’re_ running late this morning,” Constance says, knowing full well that Aramis is just being coy and probably knows every single sordid detail of Porthos’s love life simply by existing on the Earth as _Aramis_ , and hands Treville his coffee and change.

“Nonsense, I’m always there in exactly the nick of time,” says Aramis, giving her a winning smile, which is infuriating only because he’s right. Behind her, there’s a slight _thunk_ as d’Artagnan tugs the mop bucket through into the diner itself from the kitchen, one earbud dangling. He freezes and grimaces at the way the edge of the bucket knocks the door frame.

“ _Gently_ , now,” says Constance over her shoulder, without any real vehemence.

“Sorry!” he says, looking sheepish, and actually picks the bucket up. Which means it’s no longer scraping against the floor. And he’s even balancing the mop, too.

“Maybe I’ll promote him to gardener or something,” Constance wonders aloud.

“He does seem a very hardworking young lad, doesn’t he,” says Treville, eyebrows creased. “You hired him last week, did you?”

D’Artagnan had not, in fact, been guilty of the murder for which he had been framed, and that was all Treville and Athos had told her, along with the somewhat bent-out-of-shape copy of Athos’s official report she’d received. Treville had been as warm as his gruff demeanour allowed him, and Athos carried the eternally-exhausted montone that Constance knew meant he was being very sincere. The absence of murder-guilt was something for which Constance was very grateful, because that meant that she could actually afford to have someone around the place to clean the toilets.

She _hated_ cleaning toilets.

“Two weeks,” says Constance. “I’m not really paying him -- he’s working in exchange for a roof over his head. He’s already fixed all the broken light bulbs and everything.”

“You’re smiling, dear Constance,” says Aramis, in a Voice.

“I’ve never smiled a day in my life, thanks,” Constance tells him.

“I’m late,” says Treville. “Good day, Mademoiselle.”

Constance closes the cash box with marginally more force than is necessary. Aramis hums; Constance ignores him.

“You truly are a Godsend, though, Constance, that is one thing Athos is always right about.”

“Flattery won’t get you nowhere, _René_.”

“Of course it won’t,” he says, completely unphased. “I’ve known you far too long to have such delusions, my friend. Give Porthos a kiss from me when you see him, won’t you? I’ve got to go straighten the desks -- apparently the mayor’s wife is coming today to tell the children all about the _importance_ of _reading_.”

“Well that sounds very nice,” says Constance sincerely, because she knows Anne, and if anyone can convince small children to devour the entirety of Tolstoy’s works before their thirteenth birthdays, it’s her and her infinite number of blue silk blouses and pearl earrings. Aramis grins at Constance and slips off his stool, swinging his tattered backpack over one shoulder and picking his guitar up from the tiled floor beside his feet.

“A regular adventure, Madame. Don’t let the hired hand get a big head!”

Behind her, d’Artagnan starts humming off-tune again. Constance suppresses the urge to look over her shoulder and smile at him like a fool.

**

Eight or so hours later, Constance is at the front desk, trying to find a reliable carpenter in the phonebook to fix the warping front porch. It is around this time that there is a small shift in the way the universe spins.

Well, isn’t _that_ melodramatic. Constance made a determined vow many years ago to maintain her aura of Sensible Person, thanks, despite associating with some of the most melodramatic idiots she’s ever had the fortune to meet on a daily basis. It’s proving to be only semi-successful, as melodrama is very hard to retain immunity against when one is the sole owner of a small inn that is falling apart at the seams. At least, this is the conclusion that Constance has come to over the years, which has only made her more determined to remain sensible. She wrote it on her calendar at the beginning of last year, in fact, as an official resolution.

To Constance’s credit, she does not actually realize that the shifting of the universe has occurred until much later on, one rainy evening in mid-December when she’s in a particularly introspective mood. Currently, she’s not being melodramatic at all, but frowning in a very untheatrical fashion at the phonebook. How old _is_ this phone book, anyway?

This is what she’s thinking when Porthos, who’s sporting a brightly-coloured t-shirt despite the crisp weather outside, dings the bell on the front desk cheerfully. Constance doesn’t bother to point out that she’s standing right in front of him, because Porthos dings the bell every day, especially when she is there to witness it, simply because he likes the sound. Constance has got to say that she agrees; it is a _very_ nice bell.

“Hullo, Connie. How’s your afternoon been?”

“The _porch_ ,” Constance tells him mournfully, and he nods, eyebrows creased with sympathy.

“Wish I could help, eh? Never learned this handyman stuff, somehow.”

“No, it’s alright,” says Constance, patting his hand. “Good day? Heard you had a date.”

Porthos huffs, rolling his eyes and slapping his hands lightly against the counter.

“One of these days,” he says, “I’m gonna stitch Aramis’s mouth shut with his own sewing kit.”

“Oh, word’ll have got ‘round soon enough,” Constance says, closing the offending phone book and turning to file it away on the shelf behind the front desk, “who’s the girl, then?”

Porthos makes a funny noise at the back of his throat and sticks his hands in his pockets.

“Alice.”

“ _Alice_! You don’t mean _widow_ Alice? Lives-on-Louvre-Road-by-the-mayor Alice?” She turns around, grinning at the pink on Porthos’s cheeks. “That _is_ something. How’d you manage to sweep her off her feet, Don Juan?”

“Like any normal person would,” says Porthos stubbornly. “By talkin’ to her.”

“Did she come into the shop for flowers for her husband’s grave?” asks Constance seriously.

“For her dining room table,” Porthos tells her, equally seriously. “She’s very nice, Constance.”

“I know,” says Constance, sighing. “She raised all that money for charity at the fair last year and taught me to do my hair in braids in grade school.”

Porthos laughs, big and rich and warm like always, and Constance offers him a dimpled smile and squeezes his hand before she turns to her scribbled list of potential porch-fixers.

“And you’ve had no luck then, eh?”

“None at all,” says Constance. “But it’s alright, Jacques offered to do accounts again while I got on with this, so no time wasted.”

“That’s,” says Porthos, “nice of him.”

“Yeah,” says Constance, glancing at the closed door of the back office where her boyfriend is cloistered away muttering over the numbers. Constance never tells him that sometimes she looks the books over herself just to make sure, because she’s certain that would offend him dreadfully, as he is the town’s most esteemed accountant. He went to the _city_ for his bachelor’s, Constance knows. Madame Joubert has always insisted that he is the most intellectual bloke around, and Constance always has to bite her tongue when she does, so as not to make a fool of herself by saying, “Aside from Aramis, you mean”.

Madame Joubert would gossip something awful, Jacques would leave her on the spot, and Aramis would only get a big head.

Speaking of Aramis --

“Ah-ah-aaaaah, there he is! Slacking on a work day to woo a fair maiden, Porthos my friend, you’ve been spending _far_ too much time around me -- hello Constance, you look especially radiant this fine afternoon, I like the pencil in your hair -- Porthos.” Aramis, who Constance thinks must have only just finished school within the last fifteen minutes and still has a streak of marker on his forehead, claps his hands down on Porthos’s broad shoulders and takes a deep breath. “Porthos. _Porthos_. You’re coming with me to tell me everything.”

Porthos, who has a bemused smile on his face and is shaking his head as though on reflex, doesn’t say anything at all and only raises an eyebrow at his best friend. Aramis has always been incapable of entering buildings without making an entrance, Constance thinks, and even now -- with his hair vaguely combed, his battered guitar case slung over one shoulder and his canvas backpack hanging off the other and groaning with the weight of his students’ journals, ready to be marked and covered in stickers sometime in the next two days -- he carries himself with an indescribable sort of grace. Constance knows that some people (like Madame Joubert, for example) could spend an entire lifetime working to cultivate such a thing and not manage it.

Constance props herself on her elbows against the front desk and tuts.

“How was Anne’s visit, Aramis?”

“Hm?”

His hands are still sitting on Porthos’s shoulders, but at this his head jerks over to look at Constance -- uncharacteristic, perhaps, as usually he would have spent his entire effort into a staring contest with Porthos until the other relented and agreed to spill the beans on his date.

Constance notices absently that there’s a little golden cross hanging from his neck that she’s never seen before.

“The mayor’s wife,” says Constance. “You said she was coming to read to your class this morning, she’s been so excited about it all week.”

If Constance were like Anne -- the sort of person to truly sit and describe the minutia of facial expressions for a hobby -- she would have said something along the lines of Aramis’s already-bright face lighting up like a Christmas tree. Or perhaps the sun itself; Aramis never does anything in halves.

“Oh -- oh, yes, she was -- she was absolutely lovely, Constance.” He pauses, and something flickers into his expression, his eyes focusing no longer on Constance but on something behind her. Constance turns briefly to look; it’s only the slightly lopsided painting of the fleur-de-lis, which has been there for all eternity.

Constance turns back and raises her eyebrows.

“I mean,” says Aramis now, blinking deliberately like he’s shaking himself, his voice cracking very slightly (but Constance supposes that that’s normal for someone who always speaks with such enthusiasm). “The children loved her -- I think little Marie has a new hero. And she reads _Frog and Toad_ with the voice of an angel.”

Constance laughs, thinking of Anne’s gentle, nervous face, only yesterday linking arms with her as they walked back from the corner store. Constance had made sure her box of tampons was securely concealed in her purse before giving her friend’s arm a reassuring squeeze; even in her anxiousness, Anne had looked especially composed.

“Well,” says Constance, “I’ll be sure to tell her you said so.” She raises a knowing eyebrow. “Unless, of course, you’ve already gone and tried that line.”

To her great surprise, Aramis’s neck turns a bit pink.

“I did no such thing, Constance, she is a married woman.” Leaving Constance to blink a bit in surprise, he turns back to Porthos, one errant lock of hair bouncing. “ _Porthos_.”

Porthos levels him with a look for what Constance counts as three mississippis. And then, heaving a great big sigh and finally taking pity on him, yanks Aramis in by the armpit, slinging an arm around his shoulder. The guitar case and backpack sway dangerously; if Porthos’s solid bulk was not there for him to crash into, Aramis might have toppled head-first into the burgundy carpeted floor of the inn’s front lobby.

“Yeah, yeah, alright.”

“Excellent!” In the blink of an eye, Aramis seems to have regained even the tiniest scrap of waylaid ease that Constance had been missing a moment ago. Constance has always wondered how he manages it, because she personally, once flustered, remains flustered for the rest of the day, if not the week. Not that Aramis had been flustered, thinks Constance, because that would have been most odd _indeed_. Although --

“Constance,” Aramis is saying, “I may ask him to re-enact some things, so don’t be alarmed --”

“Stow it, you,” says Porthos good-naturedly. “I’ve got your order of lilies to bring over tomorrow, Connie, just remind me in the morning, right?”

“They smell delightful!” Aramis calls over his shoulder as they make their way to the stairs, him half stumbling under the weight of Porthos’s arm and his effects. “I saw them this morning in the shop window -- radiant as yourself, dear Madame --”

Constance shakes her head, utterly bemused. She wonders, sometimes, if she’s not put off by their antics because she’s known them for as long as she has, or because she’s just as barmy.

“Now, I’m not sayin’ nothing til you tell me where you got this necklace, mate.”

“A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell, my friend, have I really taught you nothing? Unless, of course, the gentleman is you -- _Alice_ , Porthos, Alice -- what’s her favorite kind of fruit, did you ask?”

“He favorite kind of _fruit_ \--”

“ _Yes_ ,” says Aramis, raising his voice so that it carries halfway back down the stairs. “Constance! What’s _your_ favorite kind of fruit?”

“Make sure he doesn’t flirt with the bannisters, Porthos,” she calls, also good-natured. “You know they get all flustered, yeah?”

“Yeah, yeah!”

“I’ll have you know these bannisters are my best friends -- so tell me, Porthos, was the fair Alice fascinated by your earring? I keep telling you you must use that as a selling point --”

Their chatter fades the higher up the staircase they go, up to the third floor and their rooms, and Constance is about to turn back to her measly set of phone numbers -- one of them is from a town two districts away -- when there’s an affected “Hmph,” from somewhere around her right shoulder.

Jacques has emerged from the office, clutching Constance’s book of accounts and looking displeased.

“Everything alright, love?” asks Constance, about to reach out and touch the pressed and ironed sleeve of his sensible white button-down before she thinks better of it and lets her arm swing awkwardly at her side. If she were in more of an introspective mood, Constance would have wondered at the fact that her arm’s awkward swinging is becoming more and more of a usual occurrence where Jacques is concerned. But Constance is not in an introspective mood -- she’s feeling a bit better, half a grin still on her face from the boys’ voices fading up the stairs, but the weight of the withering porch is still tugging at the back of her mind. Introspection is not a priority.

“Hmph,” repeats Jacques, his nose twitching. “I have said it before and I’ll say it again, Constance. I don’t think you’re rigorous enough when you screen your clientele.”

Constance stares at him. Jacques has never been a bad-looking sort of man, possessing a gentle face on days where he puts in an extra amount of effort. He’s grown a mustache of late, because apparently that is all the rage in Paris these days, though Constance cannot for the life of her figure out why anyone who lives in Paris would grow a mustache quite like _that_. She hasn’t complained about it outside of the first time, though, because it usually becomes clear very quickly that Jacques does not change aspects of his appearance for her; something that Constance has always thought fair, as he has never demanded she change aspects of his appearance for _him_ outside of the first time the mayor’s wife showed up at the diner and Jacques was horrified that she would be offended by Constance’s jeans.

Anne was not offended by Constance’s jeans, nor offended by Jacques by association, and it was, Constance remembers, the beginning of a beautiful friendship -- and so the incident had passed without much lingering ill will.

Now, Constance takes in her long-time boyfriend’s perfectly combed hair, and impeccably ironed shirt which he wears as though it was personally tailored but he really bought from _Pepin’s_ for half-price, and tries not to let her very expressive face betray her; it has been somewhat of a long day, despite Aramis’s dramatics and Porthos’s successful romantic endeavors.

“What do you mean?” she asks carefully, curling her fingers around the scrap of paper containing the phone numbers in her hand.

Jacques makes a funny sort of noise that seems to start deep in his throat and come out of his nose.

“There is a certain _class_ of person,” he begins, and then raises his eyebrows significantly.

“Jacques,” says Constance sensibly. “This place is falling apart at the seams. I’m not kicking out my regulars for the sake of _class_.”

“I _know_ , Constance,” he says, though he doesn’t much sound like he likes it. “But -- one _hears_ things, you know? I don’t like that you spend so much time with those strange men.”

Constance stares at him, once more, this time entirely uninterested in his appearance and with one eye narrowed more than the other.

“Strange men?”

At this, he loses a bit of his composure and leans in such that their faces are very close, looking quite consternated.

“They’re -- they’re _dangerous_ , Constance, one _hears_ things --”

“Hears things!” says Constance, not quite knowing why her voice is raising in pitch.

“Well, perhaps -- I don’t know much about du Vallon, though one look at the fellow might suggest --”

“ _Jacques_!” says Constance, and if her torso leans backwards away from Jacques’s, she shall vow later it was not done with spiteful intent. “What on _Earth_ are you on about! _”_

Jacques has started to splutter a bit; he always seems to get caught a bit off guard when Constance refuses to listen to him without question, which Constance thinks is a bit ridiculous considering they’ve been together nearly five years.

“Well,” says Jacques, slowly turning a little purple, “well, maybe not -- but that Aramis, he has a _reputation_ \--”

“Aramis is a _primary school teacher_ ,” says Constance, who has personally commented on Aramis’s cheerful lunacy an indeterminable number of times before. “He is publically and legally entrusted with _seven year olds_.”

Jacques’s face turns a little pink, now, to contrast the purple, and he mutters something under his breath, most of which Constance doesn’t catch outside of the distinct vowels of “rumours” and “Adele Richelieu”.

(It really has been a very long day, is what Constance will tell Anne a little while later over the phone.)

“Adele Richelieu moved to Italy with a bloody divorce settlement the size of Buckingham Palace and is now _living the sodding life_ , Jacques, so I really do not know what _rumours_ you’ve heard but I’m right happy for her even if she and Aramis had danced naked in the middle of the square!”

And then she grabs her book of accounts from him, whirls around and slams it onto the front desk with such force that the little bell that Porthos loves so much jingles.

“Well,” says Jacques, sounding appalled. “I -- I -- I. I’ve got some things to attend to at the office, Constance. Goodbye.”

Constance doesn’t look back up from her account book, which has her father’s handwriting in neat, blockish script over the front, until the sound of the inn’s front door closing has faded away for a solid ten seconds.

She blinks furiously, and then shakes herself. _Reputation_ , in- _deed_. _Suggests_. Of all the ridiculous, moronic --

“What’s this I hear about Aramis and the Cardinal dancing naked in the square?”

Constance turns around sharply and almost jumps at the sight of d’Artagnan peaking around the swinging doors leading to the diner, looking as though he’s trying very hard to sound casual but with the stiffness of someone who feels they’ve stood in on a private and personal moment.

“Oh,” says Constance, whose voice is coming out a bit small. “Not the Cardinal, his ex-wife. It’s a long story.”

“Ah,” says d’Artagnan, slipping out from behind the door and starting towards the front desk slowly, hands hovering somewhat, like he’s not sure if he’ll be allowed to approach. “Yeah, I -- um, Athos said something about a reputation.”

“Yes, well,” says Constance, turning back to her book and fingering the peeling spine, feeling oddly as though she can’t meet his eyes. “Athos is _allowed_ to say such things, as they’ve known each other for millennia.” She frowns. “And he’d never mean it so -- so -- _spitefully_.”

D’Artagnan says nothing for a moment, and though Constance does not look up from her book, she can feel his slightly awkward fiddling beside her. And then:

“Are you alright, Constance?”

Constance reaches out to straighten her bell, and then the brass name plate along the edge of the desk that reads _concierge_ , which Athos bought her for Christmas four years ago, and, finally, pushes the pink highlighter in the mug under the desk upright.

“I’m fine,” she says. “Why do you ask?”

She can practically feel d’Artagnan’s frown; Constance is coming to realize that d’Artagnan is not one to be able to hide his emotions very well. It’s a trait that they share, she thinks.

“ _Why_ \-- Constance --” He catches himself, and clears his throat. “Well,” he starts again, “he -- someone just, you know,” very gently now, “insulted your friends.” Constance looks up in time to see d’Artagnan look a little concerned. “They _are_ your friends, right? I’m not -- not reading that wrong?”

“Oh,” says Constance, who really thinks that d’Artagnan’s eyes can be so very kind. “Oh -- er, yeah, yeah, they -- I’ve known them a long while.”

“They think the world of you,” he says warmly, taking a small step forward. “They really do, all three of them -- I know Jacques didn’t say anything about Athos, but --”

Constance sighs, plucking the pink highlighter out from its mug for something to play with.

“Jacques would never insult Athos. Rumor has it he’s from some long-lost nobility.”

“ _Really_ ,” asks d'Artagnan, looking very intrigued.

“ _Don’t_ tell him I told you,” says Constance, warning in her voice. “He’ll never speak to me again.”

“On my honour,” vows d’Artagnan immediately, putting a hand over his heart and looking a bit alarmed. Constance looks at him a moment, and then, quite suddenly, finds herself breaking out into a smile.

“Thanks, d’Artagnan,” she says, thumb picking at the label on the highlighter. “Really, thank you.”

He shrugs, and finally takes the last few steps and props himself up against the front desk.

“It’s alright. It’s, um, no problem.” He scratches the back of his neck and grimaces slightly, a sudden pink on his cheeks as he finally looks sheepish. “Sorry if I overheard -- I didn’t mean to, really, I just came to tell you I’d finished with the bathrooms.”

D’Artagnan, Constance thinks, looks markedly different from Jacques -- not that it matters, at all, or is here or there or anywhere, but -- she can’t help but notice the slouch to his posture, all draped angles, and the untidy length of his hair, and the sparkle in his eyes and definite, positive lack of mustache. He looks particularly young, in a different way from how Anne does -- scraped knees and heedless laughter where Anne has a sweet innocence -- and Constance finds something in her shoulders automatically ease up because of it, every time she’s in a room with him.

“But yeah, I -- cleaned them all out. Sparkling and everything, Madame.” He’s picked up the teasing _Madame_ from Aramis, Constance thinks. “Anything else I can help with?”

Constance blinks, and straightens herself.

“Oh,” she says, “oh, no you can -- well, you’re off for today, mate.” She uncurls her right hand to reveal the wadded scrap of paper with the two phone numbers on it and makes a face. “Unless you know a bloke who can fix a front porch.”

It’s been such a long day, which is why, Constance thinks, when d’Artagnan’s face lights up in a bright, playful grin, she feels as though the metaphorical clouds part and the metaphorical angels sing.

“Yeah,” he says, and this is where the universe shifts. “Me.”

Constance blinks at him.

“ _You_ can fix the front porch.”

“Sure,” says d’Artagnan. “I grew up on a farm, my Mum taught me how -- and my Dad taught me roofs, so if you’ve got any of those --”

Constance blames the metaphorical angels for her next move, which involves her impulsively flinging her arms around his neck. D’Artagnan cuts off mid-sentence and stiffens with surprise, but then his hands come up to pat her on the back; he manages to get three pats in before she pulls away, straightening her t-shirt and pretending she’s not embarrassed.

“Thank you,” says Constance. “ _Thank_ you, I’ve been looking around all week and there’s _no_ one --”

“Constance.” She looks up, because his large, warm hands are on her shoulders. “Don’t worry about it, at all. You’re the one who gave me a job, remember? I owe you one. Or ten.”

“Yeah,” says Constance, and feels a rush of affection at the smile he gives. “Yeah, I guess.”

D’Artagnan grins again, and Constance grins back.

 


	3. CHAPTER TWO: THE WOMAN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Constance is not one to claim heart attacks in mundane situations that involve willow trees and groceries and wet muddy sneakers. Nevertheless, if it were physically possible, she swears her heart almost flies out of her chest right there and then.
> 
> “That’s the woman!” she hisses, eyes widening at the unmistakable high heels, somehow untarnished even on the muddy bank, and red lipstick, a lithe figure standing beside the hulky Labarge from earlier. “That’s the weird lady who came in this morning asking for you!” Constance turns to look at d'Artagnan and, on impulse, tightens her arm around Patrice. Her hand is still gripping his, she realizes again, and then realizes that it’s become quite clammy. “D'Artagnan?”
> 
> “That woman,” croaks d'Artagnan, pointing, “she’s the one who framed me for murder.”

**CHAPTER 2: THE WOMAN**

Of course, rushes of affection notwithstanding, Constance nearly fires d’Artagnan the next week.

Well, that’s not entirely accurate. But it’s a close thing.

It is a Tuesday, which is marginally less busy than a Wednesday, a phenomena that Constance has yet to fully understand. It’s the sort of day where the weather refuses to decide what it’s about, sort of drizzling and sort of not and mild with the occasional furious, bitter wind that cuts right through one’s light jacket.

Constance has never much liked anything that does not know exactly what it is about, and days like this are no exception. It’s put her in a Mood, which has led her to going out to buy groceries at a time she wouldn’t usually, and, in doing so, she stop by the flower shop for a bundle of something exotic -- orchids, maybe -- to spruce up her little front lobby. The lobby has spent the better part of the last week insistently depressing her with its shabby wallpaper job, and she is going to put it in its place with this orchid.

Perhaps, Constance thinks -- as she makes her way down main street, clutching her newly-bought little orchid in one hand and her bag of cabbage in the other -- she should ask d’Artagnan if he knows how to do walls, too.

Except, of course, thinking of d’Artagnan makes her think of the other thing that had made her morning strange and led to her out-of-habit grocery excursion. Constance has been resolutely ignoring it -- _it_ being the counterpart to the shabby wallpaper -- all afternoon, lest she work herself into a state. No one has any time to be worked into states on a day like this, after all, and strange women traipsing into one’s front lobby and looking around disdainfully tend to contribute to States.

This woman, in particular, thinks Constance now (holding her little orchid a bit more tightly), made her feel exceptionally small -- as if it was not Constance who owned the inn, but the woman herself. But also, even more strangely, as if all of the depression of the lobby’s wallpaper was Constance’s own being, put under the scrutiny of a pair of sharp green eyes and deemed unworthy of anyone’s time.

Now, in the middle of the street and not face-to-face with the woman’s very sharply done eyeliner, Constance feels a bit braver in her internal, scathing indictments of the woman’s attitude. But in the moment -- it was really quite unnerving.

“Might I speak to whomever’s in charge?” the woman had asked, after a long moment, having swept into the lobby and examining the space with casual disinterest whilst her heeled feet somehow managed to _click_ imperiously against the carpeted floor. Constance had blinked a little at her red-painted lips, which matched her red-painted finger nails (quite a marvelous shade of red, Constance must admit now), and taken a deep breath.

“That’s me,” she’d said, in as cheerful a voice as she could manage. “How may I help you, Madame?”

“You’re a pretty little thing, aren’t you?” the woman had said, a complete non-sequitur, smiling a little bit in a manner which reminded one of a bird of prey about to descend upon its noonday meal. Or perhaps a panther. Or a cobra. Or -- “Well, no matter -- I’ve come to make a call. Is d’Artagnan around?”

This, said with a disinterested inflection to her voice that made Constance feel as though there was a lot more To It than just that. She’d wondered, then, if this woman was someone from d’Artagnan’s life before he’d come to their village -- from the city, perhaps, but then hadn’t d’Artagnan told her he grew up on a farm? The thought -- all the thoughts -- had made Constance feel oddly out of sorts, even more than the woman’s presence had.

“No,” Constance had said. “He’s out -- on an errand. Dunno when he’ll be back.”

“I see,” the woman had said, not looking at Constance at all, but rather examining the wooden bannisters with an arched brow. She had some sort of dark silk scarf wrapped around her neck, Constance remembers now, in the style of those movie stars from the fifties. It went beautifully with her dark hair, which curled far more elegantly than Constance’s ever could, and she was wearing nylon stockings that Constance had thought looked expensive.

“Yes,” Constance had said.

“Mmmm. And -- Athos? Is he here? He does --” A pause -- “ _live_ here, I presume?”

At this, Constance had blinked in surprise.

“Er -- no, he’s at the station, probably off on patrol --” She’d shaken her head. “Sorry, _who_ are you, exactly?”

(Constance had never been one to be rude, but sometimes the circumstances demanded some brusqueness.)

“Oh,” the woman had said, finally deigning to grace Constance with a glance, “that’s really neither here nor there. I’ll be off then -- do take care, hmm?” (With another deprecating glance at the lobby at large).

And then, of course, she’d been gone. Without a trace -- as though she’d never been there to begin with. Constance had rushed outside to make sure, too, perhaps to follow the path of her vehicle down the street, but no, _nothing_. Like some sort of ghastly vision on stilettos.

It had been very unnerving, indeed.

Constance hefts her bag of groceries a little bit more and continues to walk down the street, brisk in her pace.  

She’s come a significant distance from the flower shop, by this point -- past the school and around the corner of the station, now nearing the small park with the duck pond that signifies the one-block-away mark before the inn. Even today, on this Off Day, having gone on her grocery excursion when she usually would not, Constance made sure to time it such that she did not get caught up in the rush of small children after the school bell, crowding by the single bus station or carefully crossing the street gripping their parents’ hands. It’s really the parents she’s avoiding, which is something Porthos commented on not five minutes after Constance had shown up in his shop, clutching her paper bag of cabbage and looking harried.

_Don’t worry, Constance, you’re too early to get accosted by the local gossips_.

Whereupon he’d sold her a potted orchid.

Constance, despite his advice, is worrying. Not because of the gossips, whom she has successfully avoided, nor even because of the weather, which is as irritatingly unpredictable as it was in the morning. She’s not even worrying about her fight with Jacques the week before, which has been leaving a funny taste in her mouth every time she’s thought of it since; he still has not apologized, which is not quite uncharacteristic, per say, but Jacques has always been one to avoid conflict at every possible turn, and Constance knows that her coldness over the past week has likely been driving him mad.

No -- none of those are what is causing Constance to frown unconsciously at the cobblestones whilst she walks, neglecting to mind her surroundings: the large hedges that line the entrance to the park, behind which sits a dropping willow tree and a duck pond that occasionally houses the town’s single, indefinable peacock, the origins of which nobody has ever been able to identify.

What’s got Constance frowning at the cobblestones is that _woman_.

“Oomph!”

“Shit, sorry, I w -- _Constance_?”

Constance, who had moments before nearly been bowled over by the tall, angular body of her single employee, takes a few stumbling steps back and is about to fall backwards onto her bum (she refuses to let go of her new orchid, which she has named Patrice, even to save her own dignity) when d’Artagnan’s hand reaches out and grabs her arm. She regains her balance, his fingers tight on her elbow, and is about to tell him that it’s no problem that he nearly just plowed her over when she looks up and he’s gone.

Well, not _gone_. Just standing over to the corner, peeking around the edge of the last hedge. Like some kind of _fool_.

“Well, I really _never_ \-- you can’t just go around knocking into people like that and _not apologizing_ , d’Artagnan, you have no idea the morning I’ve --”

It is at this time that Constance quite suddenly finds a warm, dry palm covering her mouth, because she has made her way to d’Artagnan’s side and d’Artagnan appears to think that her words are unimportant.

“I’d happily listen to you speak all day for the rest of my life, Constance,” he tells her, utterly serious, “but _please_ , keep your voice down.”

Constance has half a mind to lick his palm, just to spite him. She doesn’t do this, but instead widens her eyes, frowns, and says, “What on _Earth_ are you doing!” in a harsh whisper the moment he decides to remove his hand.

“ _Shhh_ ,” says d’Artagnan, a bit desperately. “He might have already hear --” And then his brown eyes widen to a comical degree, and he whirls around and stumbles backwards as though he is trying to let himself be absorbed into the hedge.

There’s a deep, masculine voice coming from the other side of the hedge. Something in Constance’s spine stiffens.

“What --” Constance begins again; d’Artagnan shakes his head furiously.

“Hang on, I ‘eard voices,” says the voice, which sounds like the vocal equivalent of shoes on gravel. “Shut up for a second, yeah?”

“It’s prob’ly just some passin’ kids,” says another voice, more brutish, in a sort of whisper.

The footsteps grow louder.

There is a moment -- the sort of moment that occasionally deigns to jump straight out of the latest popular comedy of errors and insert itself unceremoniously into any unassuming individual’s life -- wherein Constance and d’Artagnan lock eyes, and both come to the conclusion at the same time that if they are discovered, standing here behind this hedge, _looking_ like they have been spying, bad things will happen.

Not just bad things, Constance finds herself thinking, in the few half-seconds before the footsteps become really and truly dangerously close. _Really_ bad things. Things that send a small trickle of fear down Constance’s spine, not unlike the queer feeling she’d had earlier that morning, when _the woman_ had sashayed her way into Constance’s front lobby.

Constance stares at d’Artagnan.

D’Artagnan stares at Constance.

The footsteps grow louder.

“Please,” whispers d’Artagnan in a sort of hoarse, desperate voice, “don’t kill me for doing this again.”

And then he grabs her face and kisses her.

The thing is, Constance thinks -- once she has the presence of mind to formulate thoughts -- that this time, everything feels a little bit different from last time, where d’Artagnan had crashed over the metal fence behind the grocery store, Madame Joubert hollering profanities some twenty paces behind him, and offered her five Euros to kiss him. So that he could hide from the town’s only other (extremely intimidating) bed and breakfast owner who was, quite literally, screaming bloody murder.

_That_ time, Constance had rightly kneed him in the nads and watched as he passed out dead in a faint in the grocery store parking lot.

_This_ time -- well.

D’Artagnan’s lips are very soft.

This is not, mind you, the only thing Constance is thinking of. She is thinking about the way the footsteps have stopped, and about how the twigs sticking out of the hedge are scratching at her arms, and about how Patrice is probably being tragically crushed right about now, wedged uncomfortably between her chest and d’Artagnan’s diaphragm. She is thinking about all of these things, yes, with a perfect vantage point around d'Artagnan’s ear to see the person to whom the footsteps must have belonged, pausing just around the hedge and narrowing his eyes at them before scoffing and turning back around. He’s a tall sort of man, with his thick jaw roughened by stubble, looking like someone who might work down by the cannery if his cold, beady blue eyes were so unfamiliar -- like a sewer rat that’s found in the alleys of big cities. He’s not anyone that Constance has ever seen around town before, which sends another uncomfortable trickle down her spine; that’s two unfamiliar people in one morning, and Constance knows _everyone_ in town, whether she likes it or not.

But _mostly_ , Constance is thinking of how soft d’Artagnan’s lips are. And that he smells a little bit of ginger. And how the palm of his hand feels like it was _made_ to fit against her cheek --

“‘S nothing, just a couple kids goin’ at it in the hedge.”

The first bloke grunts. “Typical. Right -- let’s get out of here.”

“But Labarge -- the Cardinal --”

Constance gasps a little; d’Artagnan’s mouth has left hers, and is now pressing close-mouthed against her jaw. Footsteps start again, this time growing more and more faint.

“Shut up, will you?” says the first voice -- Labarge, Constance thinks, and starts repeating this name over and over in her head so that she doesn’t dwell on d’Artagnan’s cheek against hers. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Ye -- yeah, alright.”

The footsteps are going, are going, they’re --

“ _Gone_ ,” breathes d’Artagnan, pulling away. “Constance, I am --”

“ _Spying_ ,” says Constance, who is realizing now that somehow, through this entire ordeal, she has managed to successfully hold onto her cabbage and Patrice. “You’re -- you were -- those men aren’t _from_ here, I’ve never seen them a day in my life!”

D’Artagnan’s eyes grow wide. His hands are still on her arms.

“They’re not? Athos mentioned --”

“ _Athos_?”

He looks a bit apologetic. “Athos asked me to follow them for him, because I’m new in town and -- and a nobody, so, y’know, they’d not lump me in with the Inspector -- I was going to tell you, Constance, but --”

“You said you had _errands_ , this morning!” says Constance, who, now that she is no longer kissing him, remembers that she has been having a truly outlandish day. “You said -- you could’ve told me the truth, at least!”

“I _was_ \-- Athos asked me in confidence, I couldn’t --”

“And why were you spying on some blokes who’re living it up in the park?” Constance demands. “What have they done?”

D’Artagnan glances around, eyebrows creasing, and then -- _shrugs_.

“I’m not sure. Athos … he said he and Treville think the Cardinal’s up to something.”

Oh. _Oh_.

“Oh,” says Constance, blinking twice and tightening her fingers around Patrice.

It feels oddly as though half the fight has left her, even though she’s still got every reason to argue, because he _shouldn’t_ have kept the truth from her, damnit. What if he’d been caught by those strange men who weren’t from town? What if the woman had shown up again? What if the peacock had decided to attack him for the peanut butter sandwich Constance knew he had grabbed from the kitchen before he left? Any manner of bad things could have happened, and she wouldn’t have _known_ to go look for him, because he’d only told her he was out on _errands_.

Really, that is unacceptable, Constance thinks, and then bites her lip, because certainly -- certainly she’s not reacted this dramatically to her other clients’ tomfoolery before. Certainly --

“Listen,” says d’Artagnan, “I’m gonna go see if I can still find out where they’re heading to -- I’ll meet you at the inn, yeah?”

Constance blinks.

“You’ll do no such thing,” she says.

“I promised Athos!” He’s frowning a bit, now, expression falling and shifting as rapidly as it is so wont to do. “Come on, Constance, I’m sorry I --”

“I’m coming _with_ you,” Constance interrupts him. “Go on then. Let’s go.”

It’s odd, because she’s standing there on the street corner behind the local park in her ratty sneakers and windbreaker, and her hair’s likely frizzed up from the light drizzle, and all she’s armed with is a cabbage and Patrice the half-smothered orchid. If Athos and Treville are right, and it really is the Cardinal that’s up to something -- whatever that _thing_ may be, and here Constance must pause and wonder why she’s ready to dive headfirst into something the nature of which she’s not the foggiest about -- well. _Well_.

The Cardinal, Constance knows, is not the man’s real name, but rather an odd but somehow inexplicably fitting moniker that the townsfolk have adopted over the years. Constance isn’t quite sure who started it -- probably Aramis, if she’s being real about it -- but she doesn’t think anyone’s actually called him that to his face, either. Not that they wouldn’t live to tell the tale, or any such nonsense like _that_. This is hardly, Constance thinks, a situation from some sort of American gangster film. No, more than likely, Monsieur Armand Richelieu would be right peeved at you, at best snubbing you on the street for three or so week and at worst digging up decades old gossip on your family and paying Maurice the newspaperman to write a piece on it for the whole town to see.

But it’d be _survivable_ , is what Constance is trying to get at.

He’s only the mayor’s aide, after all, and not some mustache-twirling villain from a television serial. Though, Constance thinks, he _is_ prone to wearing a long black peacoat that has a tendency of swirling around him like a cape when he walks. Fleur said once that it made him look a little bit like a bat. And he _does_ wear a mustache.

Perhaps Aramis was onto something, after all.

“Wait, hang on, no,” says d’Artagnan. “Constance, it’s not safe.”

Constance has half a mind to throw her cabbage at him.

“Not safe! What’s it make it for you, then? If we’re both going to be unsafe, I’d rather we did it together.”

“But --”

“You _owe_ me, remember?” says Constance, and tries to ignore the way d'Artagnan’s face falls, because didn’t her mother always tell her to play fair? This, Constance thinks, is not playing fair. _But_. “Spouting off nonsense about errands! Some strange lady came into the inn asking after you, did you know? Right out the blue! I gave you a job and a roof, no questions asked, d'Artagnan. I _trusted_ you, and I really think I made the right decision, but you bloody well ought to trust me back!”

D'Artagnan’s usually dark cheeks have gone a bit pale, his eyebrows creased so very expressively against his forehead. For a moment, Constance is half-convinced that he’s going to look away, but quite abruptly, she sees the paleness transition into a darkening flush, covering his cheeks and travelling up to his ears. His shoulders slump, no longer wound tightly as they were a moment before.

“Constance, I’m -- I’m sorry. You’re right, of course you’re right, I -- I should’ve told you the truth, regardless.”

“I’ve half a mind,” says Constance, “to think you’re -- you’re associated with some underground criminal organization, or something.”

“Wh -- _no_!” His eyes go wide, almost comically so, and something in Constance's chest loosens. “ _No_ , I meant about the -- the errands, I shouldn’t’ve -- God, Constance, why’d I be involved with a criminal organization?”

“You tell me, _Monsieur_ d’Artagnan!” says Constance, very much grasping at straws here. Sensibility, it seems, has taken somewhat of a day off. D’Artagnan gapes at her for a moment before his expression cracks into a smile.

“Constance,” he says, his voice breaking with laughter; she’s about to tell him off for laughing when his warm hands come up to grip her shoulders. “Constance, _Constance_ \-- for God’s sake, ask me anything you like, but I’m telling you, I’ve never committed a crime in my life.”

“Not even smoked a joint?” she asks, eyes narrowed.

“I -- God, I dunno, I can’t remember --”

“Aha!”

“C’mon, Constance,” half a groan half a whine.

“You were almost arrested for murder the day we met,” she points out, but there’s laughter in her own voice, and she’s having difficulty biting back her smile.

“Yeah,” says d'Artagnan, offering her a lopsided smile. “Well. Nobody’s perfect.”

She laughs, now, finally; the sky is still miserable, and her orchid is positively _drooping_ , but the weirdness of the day seems to have dissipated, just slightly.

“Well, alright then,” she says, hefting her groceries a bit. “Shall we?”

“I think they were headed down to the duck pond,” says d'Artagnan, hesitating before he turns around. One sleeve of his unbuttoned plaid shirt is rolled up where the other isn’t, and his hand twitches a little at his side before he reaches out and offers it to her. “Stay close to the willow trees, I guess?”

“If we can sneak around the back of Saint Suplice, we can avoid the peacock _and_ have a good vantage point,” says Constance, shifting her cabbage and flower into one arm and grabbing the proffered hand with her own.

“Yeah,” says d'Artagnan, almost as though to himself, a soft smile growing on his face. “Yeah, you do know this place better than I do.”

The jog from the hedgerows to the back of the big willow tree is a short one, their sneakers slipping a little bit in the wet grass. Constance holds onto her effects with great dedication, and only just realizes that d'Artagnan’s hand is still holding onto her own when one or both of them lose their balance slightly stumbling down the hill toward the knobbly trunk of Saint Suplice, the ancient willow that droops over the park’s cherished duck pond. Constance can’t see the peacock anywhere, which should be comforting but only serves to give her an odd feeling of apprehension, which builds over her shoulders such that’s she’s nearly distracted enough to run right into d'Artagnan’s back again when he stops abruptly behind the willow.

“Oof, sorr -- d'Artagnan? Are you alright?”

For d'Artagnan’s face has really gone quite pale.

It’s here that Constance notices the voices from the other side of Saint Suplice, floating up towards them from the duck pond. She peeks over d'Artagnan’s shoulder, ‘round the lowest branch of the tree, and feels her stomach drop down into her shoes.

Constance is not one to claim heart attacks in mundane situations that involve willow trees and groceries and wet muddy sneakers. Nevertheless, if it were physically possible, she swears her heart almost flies out of her chest right there and then.

“That’s the woman!” she hisses, eyes widening at the unmistakable high heels, somehow untarnished even on the muddy bank, and red lipstick, a lithe figure standing beside the hulky Labarge from earlier. “That’s the weird lady who came in this morning asking for you!” Constance turns to look at d'Artagnan and, on impulse, tightens her arm around Patrice. Her hand is still gripping his, she realizes _again_ , and then realizes that it’s become quite clammy. “D'Artagnan?”

“That woman,” croaks d'Artagnan, pointing, “she’s the one who framed me for murder.”

Constance drops her cabbage.

**

It’s nearing Christmas, which in Constance’s book means it’s early November, which, in turn, is a sentiment that Athos thinks is appalling. Constance is thinking very seriously about putting up some tasteful tinsel along the front desk in the lobby -- maybe she’ll ask Porthos, _he_ always knows -- when her best friend’s voice interrupts her in a Tone.

“Constance,” says Anne, who has spent the better part of the last half hour nursing a simple chamomile tea at the diner counter and looking like she would be chewing on her lip if she were the type to chew on lips. “Do you think that it’s -- strange? That Louis has never read any of the books I like?”

Constance blinks, and stops in her distracted wiping of a milkshake glass. It has been two days since she and d'Artagnan’s encounter with The Woman, and Constance cannot say that she has managed to achieve anything but _distracted_ in those tense forty-eight hours. She’s half-convinced that at any moment, The Woman and her brilliant crimson lips will sweep into her lobby again, hellbent on some ominous design. She’s not sure what d'Artagnan’s told Athos -- actually, she’s under the impression that Athos has been sleeping at the Inspector’s office for the past few nights, and, as such, she doesn’t even know if d'Artagnan’s _spoken_ to him. Talking about such subjects over the phone seems _wrong_ , somehow, as if someone might overhear them. She’s not sure who that “someone” is, in this case, but Constance doesn’t like to think that they may inadvertently be caught up in something bigger than themselves.

There she goes, she thinks with a huff, being _melodramatic_ again. It is really not the mood she had been aiming for, this afternoon, despite the howling wind that had creaked through the building all of last night. She’s not sure if it’s still howling outside, and makes a mental note to ask one of the customers about it later.

“Constance?”

“Hm? Oh, yes, um --”

Constance is not quite sure what to say, as in her experience, Jacques outright scoffs at her few carefully cherished passions, often insisting that grown adults have better things to do with their time than watch football matches on Saturday mornings, or read well-worn penny-apiece detective novels borrowed from Mother Superior’s dusty shelves.

Of course, d’Artagnan spent the better part of an hour last Tuesday letting her gush about the her third rewatch of the seminal classic _Bend it Like Beckham_ whilst they reorganized Constance’s key cards in the back office. He’d had a huge smile on his face, the sort you can’t really fake, and Constance had thought that she’d not felt so light in ages.

That, however, is neither here nor there.

“I … I don’t know, love. Why do you ask?”

Anne’s cheeks turn a little bit pink, which Constance thinks is very interesting indeed.

“Well,” she says, slowly. “Only that -- you know, we’ve been married _years_ , and he’s never even _asked_. About -- about Austen, and Shakespeare, and theology -- you know, I asked him to do something romantic for me, for _once_ , last year, and he bought me a brand name box of chocolates and took me to dinner at the overly expensive place downtown. That is the least _me_ thing I have ever _heard_ of, Constance.”

“Hmmm,” says Constance, sympathetically.

“I _ache_ to be able to talk to someone about Austen,” says Anne, in a funny voice. “I’ve been aching for quite a long while, and I really think I’m only realizing it now.”

Constance places her wiped glass carefully onto the counter and wonders at how this sounds oddly familiar.

“Anne,” she says, slowly. “I know I’m not a particularly big reader and so I fail in that aspect of our friendship --”

“You’re the best human being I know, Constance, please don’t say that --”

“But … _have_ you talked to anyone about Austen recently?”

Anne’s already oddly-pink cheeks turn a little bit pinker. She is sitting with her back straight, as it usually is, but her long, slender fingers are absently toying with the handle of the ceramic mug that Constance had set before her earlier. No doubt, her tea has nearly gone cold, but the mug is still mostly full, and Constance can see the stained liquid ripple slightly each time the elegant rings on Anne’s left finger tap against the ceramic. Her pale hair is swept in a soft updo away from her equally pale face, one stray strand curling at her neck beside the lacey collar of her cream shirt, which is poking out from under a pale yellow cardigan.

Constance has often thought that Anne had the great fortune of being born to look like an angel from a Renaissance painting, almost cherub-like in the softness of her features. Of course, Renaissance angels are not usually caught in unhappy marriages, nor do they yearn silently to be able write their own treatises on classic literature to be published in academic journals. Or, well -- perhaps not so silently, after all, if this conversation is anything to go by.

“Only -- very briefly,” says Anne, looking at her teacup as though she might move it with her mind if she concentrates hard enough. “ _Very_ briefly. Just the other day.”

Constance, who knows her friend quite well, puts large amounts of effort into keeping her eyebrows at a neutral position on her forehead.

“And?”

“Well,” says Anne. “ _Well_. Well. Only I -- I felt --” She waves expressively with her hands, graceful as always but looking rather at a loss.

“You _felt_? Oh, dear. That sounds quite heavy, Anne.”

“I’m always such an ornament,” says Anne finally, in a mournful tone, dropping her hands. “But I really felt an _intellectual_ , here. Constance. An _intellectual_.”

Constance opens her mouth to tell Anne that she is always intellectual, and no amount of husband-ish attitudes should sway her belief in her intellectualism, when the door tinkles and another customer sweeps in.

_Speak of the devil_ , Constance wants to say, though that feels rather inappropriate, so she revises that statement to “speaking of intellectuals”.

“It’s a beautiful day out!” says Ninon, her cheeks pink from the cold. “The sun is shining, the wind only slightly crisp -- how _are_ you, Anne?”

“I am,” begins Anne, straightening her back impulsively and smoothing back her elegantly coiffed hair, which really doesn’t need much smoothing. “I _am_ \-- alright, Ninon. Thank you.”

“I heard you went to the primary school last week,” says Ninon warmly, unwrapping her expensive-looking scarf from around her neck and perching on one of the counter stools in that uniquely graceful fashion that makes all other occupants in a room feel as though she is, in fact, the sole occupant. Ninon, Constance knows, has a private tutoring business and spends her free time donating large sums of money to the local primary school -- probably the only reason why it is still standing -- and writing contemporary feminist poetry. Constance wishes that she had that sort of free time, or that sort of funds, or even that sort of posture (this as Ninon inclines her chin and looks like a Grecian goddess from one of those fancy paintings up at city hall). “What a _good_ thing to do, Anne. It is so important to instill a love of reading in children from such a young age -- especially the girls.” Ninon gives Constance a meaningful look, which Constance is certain is done with very sincere intent, but is unsure of its meaning nonetheless, as she’s currently still trying to figure out Anne’s Predicament. Constance has, admittedly, always felt a bit at a loss in Ninon’s presence, which perhaps has a bit to do with Constance’s collection of ratty plaid shirts and Ninon’s collection of very chic high-waisted capris. “We don’t encourage our girls nearly enough, as you both know.”

“Oh,” says Anne immediately, “I wouldn’t worry too much. Monsieur d’Herblay encourages all of his students with great enthusiasm.” And then she goes very pink in the face and immediately follows up with, “Oh, d’Artagnan, you look well today!”

Constance whirls around to a clinking noise at her left.

“I did something new with my hair,” says d’Artagan, grinning easily at her. His is, apparently, far better at faking the appearance of “totally not stressed, totally not worried about mysterious ladies who fraudulently framed me for killing a man” than Constance is. He’s balancing a large aluminum tray in his arms, and quirking his eyebrow. “You alright? You look a bit flushed.”

“I’m perfectly well,” says Anne, and takes two large gulps of tea.

“Three milkshakes for the table in the back,” d’Artagnan starts to tell Constance, over Anne’s desperate tea-gulping. Constance is rescued from becoming distracted by the, indeed, increased moppishness of his already shaggy hair -- nothing so messy should be eye-catching, Constance thinks stubbornly -- by him faltering mid-sentence. “Ah,” says d’Artagnan, sneakers squeaking slightly on the well-cleaned tiled floor; he nearly fumbles his tray of assorted milkshakes. “Hullo, Mademoiselle Larroque. Is it, uh, nice out? You look -- well.”

Constance bites her lip to stop herself from grinning inappropriately; she is not, it seems, the only person who feels at a loss in Ninon’s presence, and something about that thought is a great comfort. But of course, this is really not the _time_ to be thinking of shared comfort, Constance reminds herself. There are dangerous people about! She needs to know if d’Artagnan’s spoken with Athos --

“It’s just a bit chilly,” says Ninon, as breezy as the wind outside, moving such that her long golden hair sweeps over her shoulder _just so_. “We were just discussing Anne’s noble efforts in children's education, d’Artagnan. I hope Constance isn’t working you too hard and you can join us for a moment?”

“I’m a perfectly fair boss,” protests Constance, crossing her arms, whilst Anne takes another large gulp of tea and d’Artagnan seems to forget his earlier floundering, saying,

“Oh, yeah! Aramis said a ceiling tile fell in and nearly brained you!”

Anne splutters and somehow manages to make it sound elegant.

“A _what_ ,” says Constance.

“It’s nothing, really,” says Anne hastily.

“Well that settles it, I’ve been telling Richelieu for _years_ that the mayor’s office has got to put more money into the only damn school in town --”

“Richelieu doesn’t care about _schools_ , Ninon, you of all people must --”

“Never _mind_ all that!” says Constance, putting down her clean milkshake glass with an authoritative _clink_. “Anne!”

“Well,” says Anne, raising her chin slightly. “It wasn’t really a big deal.”

“A _ceiling tile_ ,” says Constance.

“A big one,” says d’Artagnan, gesturing with his hands. Constance does not deign to notice his very nicely defined forearms, as there is nothing to notice about them. _The Woman_ , thinks Constance desperately, and then, that if _d’Artagnan’s_ not told Athos anything yet, then _she,_ Constance, must.  “Like this -- I saw little Marie the other day by the bus station and she told me all about it.”

“You get your town gossip from _little Marie_ , d’Artagnan, _really_.”

“Come off it, Constance, you think I can get stuff this good from Athos --”

“ _Well_ ,” says Anne, somewhat loudly.

“Yes,” says Ninon. “Do be quiet, I want to hear Anne’s version.”

“Well,” says Anne, one more time, clearing her throat very softly. “I was reading to the children, I was reading _Frog and Toad_ \--”

“Oh, I always loved that one,” says d’Artagnan.

“Well I was reading _Frog and Toad_ and there was this funny grating noise and a second later I’d been shoved out of my chair and the ceiling panel had fallen.” Anne takes a long breath and shifts slightly in her seat, and then plays with the handle of her mug. “It was very dramatic for a Wednesday morning.”

“Aramis says the children kept thinking you’d died.”

“Oh,” says Anne, her voice once more a bit funny, “I was very much alive.” She clears her throat, as if the right herself, and then smiles, sudden and dimpling at d’Artagnan. Constance slides a green tea latte towards Ninon slowly, keeping her eyes on Anne. “His class is really so sweet, you know,” says Anne. “They’re all incredibly bright. And they offered to get me a glass of water.”

“But who shoved you out of your chair?” asks Ninon.

“Well, Aramis, of course,” says Anne, and immediately turns her attention once more to the last gulp of chamomile in her mug.

Constance stops herself, just barely, from narrowing her eyes. There is still some pink on Anne’s cheeks.

“Well,” says d’Artagnan, “he didn’t tell me _that_ part. You’d have thought he’d want the whole town to know, knowing Aramis. But nevermind -- I ought to get back to work before Constance brains _me_ with that milkshake glass -- ow, hey, I was joking!”

“Git,” says Constance, only half-agreeably, flicking his ear once more for good measure. “Take an extra key card up to room twelve, Fleur’s got a friend staying with her this month.” She hesitates, hand stilling in the air between them, and takes a deep breath. “Is Athos in his room, d’you know?”

D'Artagnan hesitates, the first flicker of anxiety she’s seen all day colouring his dark eyes. Not that she’s actually _seen_ him much today -- he’s been busy in the kitchen, and she’s been busy in the lobby, and oh, God, what if The Woman had shown up again and the last thing she’d told him was to _scrub the sinks a bit harder, please_.

No, thinks Constance. She’s being ridiculous. They’re hardly, as solidly established before, existing within an American gangster drama.

“Uh -- yeah, I think he just came in ten minutes ago. Seemed a big tired, though, if I -- uh, got it all right.”

“Right,” says Constance. “Right.”

“Shall I … tell him something on your behalf?” asks d'Artagnan, his words a bit slow. Across from her, Constance can see Anne’s eyebrows twitch at this slowness of words. Ninon, for her part, does not know either Constance nor d'Artagnan well enough to twitch her eyebrows. Constance takes a deep breath and shakes her head.

“No, it’s quite -- quite alright, I’ve just got to drop something off for him later. Unless, of course,” she adds, deliberate, “you’ve already dropped it of like you said you would.”

D'Artagnan seems to raise the tray of coffees a bit higher in front of himself.

“He’s not been in all day,” he says, an edge to his voice. “So I’ve not had the chance, Constance.”

“ _Right_ ,” says Constance, once more. “Well. I’ll just take it later then.”

“That’s -- good, great,” says d'Artagnan, making as though to leave, still holding the tray. “I’ll take the -- the card -- g’bye, Mademoiselle Larroque.”

Constance suppresses the very large urge to sigh dramatically; if she did, Anne would twitch her eyebrows _again_ , and then Constance would have to explain all of this to her. Constance does not think she possesses the fortitude of spirit, just now, to explain to her dear friend the strangeness of The Woman, nor the softness of d'Artagnan’s lips.

Oh, _God_.

She’s got to call Jacques and make sure he’s still alive, right after she goes to speak with Athos.

“I should ask Aramis if he’s gotten Serge to fix the ceiling yet,” says Ninon, conversational, twirling one long golden strand of hair around her finger. “Have you gone back to check on them, Anne?”

“Only a few times,” says Anne, looking once more at her mug as though she might move it with her mind. “I mean -- first to check the ceiling, of course, and then because I gave him Victor Hugo to read, can you believe he’s never had the time to get through _Les Miserables_? So, Constance, your cousin Fleur is visiting again?”

She says this with the desperate tone of someone who wants to change the conversation; Constance thinks abruptly of their earlier exchange, about the lack of Austen and Shakespeare and theology in Anne’s life.

An _intellectual_ , she’d said. Constance wisely does not comment on the use of “he” rather than “they” and turns back to wiping her already-wiped glass.

“Yeah,” she says. “She can’t shut up about you, you know,” this to Ninon. “Thinks you hung the moon.”

But Ninon only looks pained.

“It’s a pity how little mentorship young women receive,” she says, softly. “I only wish that more of us could have the opportunity to truly follow our passions.”

Constance thinks about her long-forgotten university acceptance letter, hidden at the bottom of her underwear drawer, and the precious little time she has to attend to her sketching any longer. She really must go see Athos as soon as she can.

“Yes,” says Anne, once more playing with the handle of her mug. “You are quite right, Ninon.”

**

The weather outside has yet again transitioned from crisp and sunny to a grey, howling wind that Anne would say feels like something out of Edgar Allen Poe. It creaks through the thin walls of the stairway as Constance makes her way up to the third floor where the regulars’ rooms are. Though early November is almost Christmas in Constance’s book, and almost Christmas is a good thing, she once again thinks about how much she dislikes this unpredictable weather as she skips over the second-highest squeaking stair and plants her sneaker-clad feet on the third floor landing.  

The landing is quiet, save the tinny sound of Elvis leaking out from the old record player that Constance knows is nestled away in Mother Superior’s boudoir. Most of her regulars are still at work, or out running errands, and the hallway has an odd, muffled quality to it as Constance pads down the threadbare carpet on the floor towards room 313, far down at the end. Athos’s room is one of the few that’s facing the front of the inn, looking down onto the street through a tall window without any screens; they had fallen out two years ago, without any warning, just dropped right out of their frames near-apparently of their own volition. Constance had mopped the window panes herself only last August, perched precariously on the sole ladder in her possession whilst Inspector Treville did her the great favor of holding it still underneath her.

She passes by Porthos’s room, and then Aramis’s, resolutely ignoring the impulse to go check to see if d’Artagnan’s returned to his own room -- the small one at the corner of the hall, across from Mother Superior. The third floor is admittedly the only of her floors that is ever filled, and Constance, listening to the wind creak through the old building, intermingled with Elvis’s tinny voice crooning about hound dogs, feels a sudden, overwhelming gratefulness. Mother Superior, she knows, had been here near centuries, but the _boys_ \-- they do not _have_ to rent rooms from her, she knows, is sure that at least two of them are now steady enough on their feet to rent their own flat. Athos, of all of them, must have some sort of trust fund stowed away, and heaven knows the little two-room cottages down by the hardware store are far more picturesque than this dim little hallway with its peeling fleur-de-lis wallpaper.

She can still remember the three of them showing up to town, shortly after Inspector Treville himself did, and begging her parents for a room or two to rent just until they got back on their feet. Constance had been in her final years of high school, then -- back when she had the time to spend on her dress catalogues, and the naive hope of going to university in the city, and the fresh thrill of actually catching the interest of a boy as well-to-do as Jacques. She remembers clearly, overhearing a conversation between her father and Inspector Treville -- that he could vouch for the young men, that they had just come back from a tour, were all respectable government-cleared veterans, and needed somewhere to stay for a few months.

A few months had turned into a few years, and then into a couple more, and now Constance is running the place rather than her parents. She often wonders, in the quieter moments, if the three of them had not come to some silent agreement to stick around just to support her.

This is a thought that never fails to bring a funny, warm feeling to her chest. It is not a thought that brings with it the courage to actually ask them, and perhaps, Constance thinks, she does not know quite what she’d do with herself if they answered.

She finally makes it to the end of the hall, pausing in front of Athos’s door and rocking a bit on the balls of her feet. What on Earth is she supposed to say? That d'Artagnan broke his promise and told her all about what he’d been asked to do? That she was frightened of some mysterious woman in high heels? That she’d lost a perfectly good cabbage two days ago, and she would like some answers?

She raises her fist to knock, and nearly does, when she realizes that the door is already cracked open a bit and a muffled voice is coming from the inside.

Hesitating very slightly, Constance nudges the door open with her hand and peaks inside.

The room itself is tidy enough, with a set of books stacked on the desk in the corner, and one pair of polished loafers lined up neatly against the wall under the closet, by the bathroom. The window that looks down into the front lawn is flung wide open, such that the harsh wind from outside seems to fill the entire room; Constance, who is wearing a simple grey hoodie over a thin floral camisole, brings her hands up to rub at her arms almost immediately.

Athosis lying on his rumpled bed, nearly face-down and seemingly impervious to the cold, talking to the cat.

Now, this is not an unusual occurrence in and of itself. Cat is a stable fixture in the ecosystem of the little inn, and Constance has long since come to accept her as an entity as integral to her establishment as the very walls themselves. Nobody’s quite sure where she came from, nor how she attached herself to Athos, who is difficult to get along with if you are a person and not a feline. But then, thinks Constance, perhaps that is exactly why this feline _does_ get along with him.

“Look at your tiny paws,” Athos is saying, holding up one white-socked cat paw, as though up to the light, and narrowing his eyes at it. “They are such dainty paws, Cat. You are a dainty cat.”

_Ah_ , thinks Constance. So Treville gave him the rest of the day off and he has already broken into his measly liquor cabinet. She wants to protest that it is barely three p.m., but refrains from doing so; she’s not wholly sure he’s actually slept the last two days, he’s been so busy at the inspector’s office, and he is allowed this one thing. It does not happen _that_ often, after all.

Constance clears her throat, somewhat hesitant, and waves her hand a bit in front of her.

“... Athos? Is it alright if we talk for a moment? Only your door was open, and this is -- um. Um, it’s. Important. I think.”

Athos blinks up at her with bleary eyes that take a moment to focus -- _how_ much has he had to drink, Constance wonders painedly -- and is about to open his mouth to answer when Cat bats him across the face with one of her dainty paws. He blinks, furiously, and scrunches his nose up as though to sneeze but doesn’t. It is a rather aristocratic nose, if Constance may say so, although she is never sure if this assessment is influenced by the rumor that Athos de la Fèrre was, in fact, once of the aristocracy.

“Good afternoon, Constance,” he says, because if there is one thing that _does_ suggest high-born, it’s his persistently wide and refined vocabulary, stubbornly present even when he is drunk on a Thursday afternoon in his bedroom. “Please, come in. I am at your disposal, Mademoiselle.”

“Yes,” says Constance. “Right.” And then -- “are you -- quite alright, d’you think?”

“I am perfectly good,” says Athos, and then widens his eyes somewhat comically. “ _Well_. I am perfectly _well_.”

“Do you maybe need a coffee?” asks Constance, sympathetic.

“No, thank you,” says Athos, raising his hand to push his glasses back up the bridge of his nose with one finger. Cat’s paw is now once more free, and as such she bats him across the nose again.

“I see,” says Constance, clasping her hands together in front of her.

“ _Mrowr_ ,” says Cat.

“You are the only one who understands me, Cat,” Athos says very sincerely.

“You see, Athos,” starts Constance, after a long moment of silence, “you _see_. Well. A couple days ago, I was downstairs, in the lobby, and this -- a lady came in.”

Athos stills, his long fingers once again closing around Cat’s dainty paw; Cat mewls slightly, but Athos ignores this.

“A woman?”

“Yes,” confirms Constance. “Anyway, it’s nothing to be -- to be worried about, I’m _sure_ , only, well -- well, she was a bit -- well d'Artagnan said he _knew_ her, and she was asking for --”

It is at this moment in time that, through the wide-open window of Athos’s room -- the very window that looks out into the front yard of the inn -- there is the sound of a car’s engine approaching and purring to a stop. Constance falters in her half-prepared speech, hands gripping at the hem of her hoodie when the slamming of a car door floats up to reach them.

And then, immediately after -- the sharp _click_ of high heels on pavement.

Athos, who possesses a rather pale complexion to begin with, has gone even paler, his visage resembling that of the skim milk Constance has sitting in the kitchen refrigerator downstairs. In his arms, Cat mewls in an strained fashion, as he has suddenly gripped the little animal to his chest with great force; he shall have little black hairs all over his mauve scarf, Constance thinks absently, as the heels’ clicking continues.

“Athos--” she begins, the word landing at the end of a small sigh, but she never finishes whatever it was she was going to say (Constance is not wholly sure what that would have been), for Athos interrupts her.

“She’s _here_ ,” he hisses, pale eyes wide and panicked behind the thick lenses of his glasses.

Constance blinks.

“Who’s --”

“ _She_ is!” his voice has changed from a hiss to a sort of yelp, now, as he makes to scramble off the bed, but gets caught in the quilt hanging from the edge and ends up collapsing in a heap of flailing limbs and aggrieved Cat onto the threadbare carpet.

“Athos!” says Constance, shaken; this is strange behaviour, even for him. She makes to heave him back to his feet, but he has already shot upright like a spring, his hair in total disarray, Cat hanging from his crossed arms for dear life and yowling.

“She’s _here_ ,” he repeats, now a faint whine, and promptly runs out of the room.

Out of the room, down the carpeted hallway, past a startled Porthos in the act of entering his room, and the Elvis sounding from behind Mother Superior’s door, nearly tripping on nothing and finally screeching to a halt at the other end of the hall, in front of the small, locked window that looks down onto the canopy covering the back porch of the inn.

Constance yelps a little as Cat is shoved into her arms as Athos unlocks the window, also screenless -- good Lord, her inn is falling apart, Constance thinks faintly -- and shoves it open. Immediately, they are both assaulted by the strong November wind, peppered with colourless rain.

“Athos, for _God’s sake_ , _who_ is here!”

Athos yanks Cat back from Constance’s arms, and cradles her to his chest, close to his face, as one might a small infant. Cat mewls weakly.

“My wife,” says Athos, in a strangled voice.

And then he jumps out the window.

Constance decides, right there and then, that she shall never again pronounce any _one_ single day outlandish.

Of course, Constance is sure that Athos will at some point return. He can hardly have simply run off into the woods or anything similar, as, she supposes, many people may do when spooked as badly as he. He’s left all his things back in his room, including his very nice blue peacoat which everyone supposes he must have had for always. He would never vanish _without_ it.

Nevertheless, Constance immediately sticks half of her torso out into the howling wind and hollers after him, her voice cracking. Almost immediately, half of her ponytail is plastered to her face, and even worst -- Athos is nowhere in sight. Constance pulls herself back through the window and into the hallway, the worn soles of her sneakers sliding on the threadbare carpet as she rushes towards the staircase and takes them two at a time, her feet slapping on the stairs, not stopping until she’s slid into the front lobby and opened her mouth with the full intention of hollering Athos’s name out of the open front door --

Constance screeches to a halt in front of the front desk, her arms flailing very slightly. The wind has teased her curly hair into a tangle -- she can _feel_ it -- and one sleeve of her hoodie is pushed up where the other is not. Her shoes are old, her jeans even more so, with ancient spatters of acrylic paint on the thighs, and she is breathing as though she just ran a marathon.

In front of her, the tall, lithe figure removes her tight leather gloves with great elegance, not a bit of her looking windswept despite the fact that she has undoubtedly just come in from the terrible weather outside. Upon her feet are the same polished, four-inch heels that seem to be able to survive even the apocalypse unscathed.

“I was under the impression that there’s a cafe, here,” says The Woman, smiling at Constance with her red-painted lips. “I’m just dying for an Italian cappuccino, you know?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> plot's getting started, boys! and we're starting to see some more familiar faces, aren't we
> 
> a few quick notes, though I'm trying for ONCE to keep these brief so that the story plays out organically:
> 
> \- cat is but a figment of my imagination and has no relation to anything in the show; I just thought her presence would be hilarious  
> \- any similarities to the iconic comedy show parks and recreation are done completely on purpose and belong to mike schur, and nick offerman's most excellent line delivery  
> \- while anne's dreams and interests will be explored later in the story, i did want to say that i've always imagined her to be a large romantic at heart under the unwavering emotional armour she carries in the show, and so in this context have modeled her as a somewhat of a far more subdued and decorous anne shirley in her romantical inclinations; she _does_ fall in love with aramis, after all, and he's the most romantic fool around


	4. CHAPTER 3: ATHOS ABSCONDS WITH A CAT

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Constance has, as established, grown tired of people asking her if she’s alright, which is an inquiry that’s really made _worse_ when the inquirer recently absconded with a cat through her hallway window.
> 
> As such, Constance crosses her arms over her chest, the toilet book Mother Superior gifted her with still in hand. 
> 
> "I could ask the same of _you_."

**CHAPTER 3: ATHOS ABSCONDS WITH A CAT**

As a general rule, Constance has always liked the kitchen. Specifically, the kitchen that leads out into the little café on the first floor of her building, joining onto the left wall of the inn’s lobby. Of course, she doesn’t really have many other kitchens to compare it with -- she did not make it a habit to visit people’s homes, even as a child, and when she did she did not ask them, “Excuse me, Monsieur, but I would very much like to examine your culinary space”. Her father had always had an eye for practicality, though, and Constance is thankful for that now; her kitchen is not only structured such that one might move about it with ease, everything very organized, but also such that it is perfectly build so two people may hide in the back beside the pantry, sitting mostly-comfortably atop the two barrels of coffee beans.

“Hmmm … the can of peaches.”

“No.”

“The other, bigger, can of peaches.”

“No.”

“That cross stitch that I am fairly certain is the Lord’s Prayer in Spanish.”

“How’d you go from a _can of peaches_ to that?”

“You said something orange,” defends d'Artagnan, shrugging in an exaggerated fashion and spreading his hands as though to say, _duh, Constance_.

“Don’t you _duh Constance_ me,” says Constance. “That cross stitch isn’t orange.”

“It’s got orange in the corners.”

“Barely!”

“Right -- there, there there -- along the little green leaves.”

“That’s not bloody orange, that’s -- well that’s nearly yellow, is what that is.”

“It’s orange.”

There is a moment of silence.

“God,” says Constance, “the whole thing is crooked, isn’t it. It’s not sitting on the wall straight.”

“Shall I get up and straighten it for you,” asks d'Artagnan.

“No,” says Constance, sounding a bit tired. “I’ll just -- let it sit, I suppose.”

They lapse into silence once more, and the pantry feels oddly still. Save for the erratic wiggling of d'Artagnan’s left knee, nothing moves. Even their breathing is slow and steady, and Constance would worry she might fall asleep if it isn’t for the fact that their arms are pressed against each other from shoulder to elbow, and d'Artagnan seems to have been blessed at birth with the functional characteristics of a space heater.

Specifically, this is not a good thing, because so has Constance.

And it’s extremely _warm_.

“I still say it’s orange.”

“It could be fuschia for all I care,” says Constance, “but it’s not what I spied.”

D'Artagnan drops his head back against the wall and groans.

“ _What_ did you _spy_ then.”

“That,” says Constance, “would be defeating the point of _I Spy_ \--”

“The cream cartons.”

“No.”

“The patterns on the tiles.”

“No.”

“The stain on your shoelace.”

“My shoelaces are perfectly clean!”

“The wall.”

“That’s _bloody yellow_.”

“Alright, fine, God, I give up!”

Constance looks at him very solemnly.

“There’s a bit of dry leaf,” she says, “caught in your hair.”

The pantry is silent. Even d'Artagnan’s leg has stopped its infernal jiggling.

“If we weren’t in here expressly for the purpose of hiding from out there,” d'Artagnan says, “I would get up right now and _leave this room_.”

“I understand,” says Constance, still very solemnly.

“I am _metaphorically walking out right now_ \--”

“Yes --”

“God Constance stop _laughing_ \--”

“I can’t, your face is just --”

“You cheated on I-bloody-Spy, how d’you even _do_ that --”

“I didn’t cheat! I --”

“That’s gotta be like a special skill to put in your resume -- ow, oi, _you’re_ the one who conned _me,_ woman, stop poking me!”

“I didn’t cheat at I Spy!” says Constance, through her somewhat hysteric giggles. She is sure the sound is not very flattering, but she plows forward, intent on making her point. “I do not _cheat,_ _Monsieur_ d'Artagnan!”

“Well you’ve cheated here -- oi, h-ey, that tick -- you’ve cheated _here_ , _Mademoiselle_ Baudin -- stop, stop, _God_ \--”

His voice cracks spectacularly on the last word, and he nearly topples off his coffee barrel when someone clears their throat loudly from the pantry entrance.

D'Artagnan and Constance freeze; the bit of orange leaf flutters out of his hair, somewhat pitifully, onto the floor.

“She’s, uh,” says Porthos, “still out there.”

“How long does it take to drink a single cappuccino?” Constance wonders aloud.

The thing is, thinks Constance -- the _thing is_ , hiding in the back of one’s kitchen from a lady in high heels is not the most heroic, nor the most courageous course of action anyone in this vicinity might have taken. Facing one’s fears in life is the hallmark of a person with strength of character, Constance’s father always used to say, and where is she now? _Not_ facing her fears. Or, more specifically, not facing her current conviction that the impeccably-dressed woman patronizing her establishment is somehow a dangerous sort of fellow. There’s no evidence _truly_ incriminating her, other than d'Artagnan’s eyesight, which could be terrible, for all Constance knows. She hasn’t actually known him that long -- perhaps he really needs very thick prescription glasses for his awful nearsightedness, and this is all one big mistake. Just one very big coincidence. A misunderstanding! Something Constance can put out of her mind and subsequently move forward with her day.

The true hero of the hour -- Porthos -- shuffles a bit in the doorway and shrugs.

“She’s flippin’ through some magazine she pulled from her purse,” he says. “Some British thing, I dunno. Got that girl Keira whatsit on the front.”

“Keira Knightley,” corrects Constance automatically, as any person whose best friend has made her watch the two-thousand and five rendition of _Pride and Prejudice_ over thirteen times might. And then -- “Oh, this is not good. I’ve got to go and do accounts.”

“Are you still fighting with Jacques, then,” asks Porthos, sympathetic. He does not know the source of the conflict, Constance thinks, and she intends to keep it that way.

“No,” says Constance, not sounding at all very convincing. “We just. I just. He’s busy. There’s a frightening lady in my cafe, Porthos, focus on the important things, here.”

D'Artagnan clears his throat slightly at her side, and she resists the urge to poke him again.

“Theoretically,” says d'Artagnan, “isn’t it just me that should be hiding?”

“ _No_ ,” says Constance. “What if she asks me about Athos again? What if she asks me about _you_? I can’t risk unknowingly letting slip some vital piece of information that might get you -- you --”

“They?” asks Porthos.

“I dunno, _offed_ by the American mob!”

“I don’t think there’s such thing as the American mob,” says d'Artagnan honestly. Constance _does_ poke him, this time, and he has the grace to look sheepish. “Sorry, this is on me, yeah, I know.”

“Actually, she looks Irish,” says Porthos. “Got that complexion, y’know?”

“No,” says Constance, sagging against the yellow wall. “I don’t know. I don’t know because I’ve never left this godforsaken town and probably never will now, because The Woman is out there framing people for murder and she’ll probably set this whole place on fire or something, because that’s my sort of luck.”

There is a prolonged moment of silence, wherein Porthos and d'Artagnan stare at her.

“Well,” says Porthos, because he is unequivocally the best person Constance knows, “I’ll be out there -- let you know when she’s gone, yeah?”

Constance feels the words catch in her throat, so she only nods, and sags a bit further against the wall as Porthos leaves.

There is, once more, a prolonged moment of silence -- d'Artagnan, it seems, is much better at that sort of thing then she’d have thought looking at him. It’s magnified in its contrast to the loud giggling of before.

“Pretty sure she’s French, actually.”

“D'Artagnan, I swear to every bloody _saint_ Aramis has ever prayed to --”

“Was that a singular you or a plural you?”

“What?” asks Constance, still on the brink of a holy reckoning.

“Before, when you were worried about the American mob,” says d'Artagnan, his voice measured and calm. Too calm, thinks Constance, considering _he’s_ the one who got framed for the hypothetical killing of a human being. But then, _she_ just predicted arson, so perhaps he really is the calmer of their two, just now. “I just think that -- if it was a singular you Athos would be pretty offended, seeing as you’ve known him longer.”

She tries not to let the laugh escape -- it’s really more of a huff than anything, if she’s being honest, but it’s the principle of the thing -- only it does anyway. She suddenly seems to be too tired to make it anything more than a huff, though, and she shrugs and looks down at her fingers, trying not to feel embarrassed.

“It was definitely a plural you,” she says, to her fingers.

She can hear the muffled sounds of the counter and the cafe’s clientele through the door. Constance tugs at the ends of her hoodie sleeves to pull them over her hands; she’s cold, all of a sudden, which doesn’t make a lick of sense considering how _warm_ d'Artagnan insists on being, and how she herself is usually perfectly fine in a t-shirt in mid-January.

Something nudges gently at her shoulder and Constance almost starts.

D'Artagnan looks apologetic once more, his hand recoiling into a fist such that his fingers aren’t poking into her bicep. But the apologetic look quickly morphs into one of concern, his very expressive eyebrows creasing in the middle.

“Hey,” he says, for what feels to Constance like the billionth time. “You alright?”

“I --” the words catch in her throat, and she fights the urge to drop her head back against the stupid yellow wall. “I’m fine,” she manages at last. “Just a bit -- a bit stressed, you know?”

“About The Woman?” D'Artagnan’s voice is not gentle -- she’s not sure that _gentle_ is the exactly correct way of describing d'Artagnan. Curious, maybe, or honest. Gentility is something that Constance might apply to the lone deer that old Madame Fournier spotted at the town line last year, or the peculiar softness with which people like Anne or Aramis speak to children. D'Artagnan is all angles and impulsive emotional outbursts and a large helping of belligerence. But it’s genuine, and friendly, and it’s got that insistent, earnest quality to it. “Listen, Constance, I’m sorry you ended up -- I’ll get to the bottom of it, I swear to you. I won’t --”

“No -- no, you’re not. It’s not that,” she sighs and looks over at him, takes in his big dark eyes and the flopping lock of hair hanging over his left eyebrow. He’s wearing his _Star Wars_ shirt again today, Constance notices -- she’d noticed this first thing in the morning, just as she seems to notice most other minor details about him without even meaning to -- and maybe it’s that that makes her drop her eyes. “I’ve just -- everything, that’s been going on. This place isn’t exactly in top shape, you know? And you’re a brilliant help, d'Artagnan, but I -- I dunno.” She shrugs, and tugs again at her sleeve. “I didn’t start out my life wanting to _be_ an inn owner, you know?”

D'Artagnan, she thinks once more, is just as terrible as she is at masking his emotions, and she almost smiles at the surprise that flashes across his face.

“You didn’t?” he asks, sounding genuinely confused.

“Well -- no, not really.”

“But you’re so good at it!”

Constance blinks at him. Perhaps it is the weather, or the fact that she’s been feeling as though everything is a bit of a mess lately -- the inn, and Jacques, and her poor wilted Patrice and Athos disappearing into the backyard with Cat, and Anne's strange mood and The _Woman_ and the fact that she’s not had the chance to sit down at her desk and properly sketch or read in nearly five months or even just have a brief moment of peace to herself --

Well. Constance stares at the boy in front of her, and feels an odd rush of affection in her chest, accompanied by a bittersweet sort of pang. She does _not_ have a lump in her throat, not at _all_ , but she can suddenly remember her mother sitting on the edge of her bed the night before summer exams started and telling her that there’s nothing more effective than a good old fashioned friend to chase away the daily anxieties.

“I,” says Constance.

“Yeah?” asks d'Artagnan, and once again, there’s that -- that _honestness_. That’s not a proper word, Constance knows, but it feels right.

“Why’d you come here, d'Artagnan?” The question surprises Constance herself; it’s not what she’d intended to say. Maybe, “thanks, mate”, or “you really think so?” if she was trying to be self-deprecating about it. D'Artagnan’s eyebrows have furrowed, thick and dark on his forehead and settling solidly over his bright eyes.

“You mean in the pantry? There’s a weird woman out there, remember?”

“No,” says Constance, “no, I mean -- _here_. You just. You just showed up one day. This isn’t exactly a destination sort of city, you know?”

“It’s not actually a city,” d'Artagnan points out, completely seriously, and Constance feels the smile pull at her lips before she’s even registered it. She shakes her head, and sighs a bit, and then, because it feels _right_ , she lifts her arm and slings it over his shoulders. They don’t tense, and she lets out an exhale and drops her head back against the wall.

She’s gonna be boiling hot again in another minute, she thinks resignedly, but that’s alright.

“My Dad,” says d'Artagnan, suddenly.

“What?”

“Why I came here.” He turns to look at her, his cheek nearly touching the yellow wall. “My Dad -- died. ‘Bout a month ago, now. He was killed by some entitled git who tried to stick up the bar close to our house, and that’s why I came all the way here.” He laughs. Almost. “Turns out it was some idiot Athos ran out of town here, and he decided his best next course of action,” d’Artagnan takes a deep, determinedly steady breath, “was to go around to neighboring villages shooting up innocent farmers and blaming it on our friend the Deputy Inspector.”

Constance stares at him, nonplussed.

“Is that --”

“Why I got in a fight with half your lobby half a day after arriving?” He grimaces, and looks down at his fingers. “Sort of, yeah. I really am sorry about that, Constance. We cleared it up, though.”

“Right,” says Constance, her voice soft.

“So that’s it, then,” says d'Artagnan, and looks down at the floor, shoulders shrugging in a too-casual manner, the sort where the shrugger is so successful at being casual that it is almost glaringly obvious that there is nothing truly casual about the shrug. Constance is well-versed in these sorts of shrugs, and so she taps her knuckles against her knees gently and tilts her head at him.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” says d'Artagnan. “Like I said -- we cleared it all up, and everything. He got arrested by the county police.”

There’s more to it, that much is clear, an unspoken ache and missing pieces that are probably a story longer than the one he just told. Anne would mull over for days, Constance knows -- something filled with dips and dives and _nuance_ , her best friend’s favorite word.

Constance simply reaches over and takes his hand, gently, and then looks back up at the wall.

“My parents passed when I was seventeen,” she says quietly. It appears the right thing to say, because after a quiet moment, d'Artagnan nods beside her.

“I thought so.”

“You did, did you?”

“You’re so bright, Constance -- I dunno, I’d never think someone like you would just stay in a place like this.”

She feels herself flush, and shakes her head, picking at a hole in the knee of her jeans.

“Even though I’m so good at running this inn?”

“I mean -- that’s not what I meant,” says d’Artagnan, going a bit pink in the cheeks.

“Well it’s hardly an explanation. Most people would’ve up and left after something like that.”

“You’re not most people,” says d'Artagnan simply. And then makes a face. “God, that sounded ridiculous, didn’t it.”

Constance feels her mouth stretch into another grin.

“A bit, yeah.”

“Right, let me try again --”

“D'Artagnan --”

“No, alright, I’ve gotta come clean -- the real reason I guessed was because Inspector Treville down at the office seems to have adopted you. I swear, you hear the man talk and you’d think you were his own child --”

“Oh, come on --”

“I’m serious! It’s actually quite heart-warming, Constance.”

“D'Artagnan,” says Constance, leveling him with a look.

“Right,” says d'Artagnan.

“I stayed because of the inn,” says Constance. “I couldn’t let it fall apart. It was their thing -- our thing. You know?”

“Yeah,” says d’Artagnan, and perhaps he does, even if it isn’t quite in the same way.

“And now -- now, it’s been ages, and it feels like -- like if I can’t hold it together, or something, all this time’s just been wasted. Everything -- with school, and, and now _Jacques_ is --” She breaks off, feeling suddenly very embarrassed that her voice broke a little at the end there, the heat creeping back under her skin uncomfortably. She pinches her lips shut and drops her eyes to the bag of dried figs in the corner; her hand is still in his, she realizes, and untangles it awkwardly, something unpleasant turning in her stomach.

“Well, anyway,” she finishes, a bit lamely.

“You don’t have to stay, you know,” says d’Artagnan, abruptly.

Constance turns over to look at him, confused.

“What do you mean.”

“I mean,” he shrugs, but there’s a stubborn set to his jaw, and he looks away towards the wall, then back towards her. His now empty palm curls a little; Constance dislikes that she notices, though she’s not quite sure why. “If you’re unhappy,” d’Artagnan clarifies. “I don’t think your parents’d want you to be unhappy.”

“That’s not --”

“I’m just saying, Constance.”

Constance breathes in sharply, still a little wrong-footed at the abrupt change in the pace and direction of the conversation, one for which she decidedly was not planning for. Nor, if she is to be honest with herself, is ready for -- a thought that comes forth bringing with it a grimace and a hot flush to her neck, and then is unceremoniously shoved to the side.

“Have you talked to my parents recently, d’Artagnan?”

He seems unphased by the slight edge to her tone, and perhaps it’s because he doesn’t quite have much reason to expect it, but he just plows forward and Constance feels herself bristle. “Come on, Constance. You can do anything if you put your mind to it.”

It’s _not_ that simple, Constance wants to say, suddenly and perhaps irrationally angry at him.

She can’t just up and leave the place, whatever her parents may or may not have wanted, because she has _responsibilities_. She’s not the sort of person to go traipsing to another town without a care in the world just because something’s _happened,_ as he himself pointed out, so who’s d’Artagnan to tell her what to do? “Can I?” she says, more bite to her voice than necessary. They’ve locked eyes, now, and her irritation seems to finally register with him; he frowns.

“Of course you can.”

Constance digs her fingers into the thighs of her jeans. For some reason, the stubborn set to his jaw that she’s found endearing so many times in the past month is only worsening her annoyance.

“Well,” she says, “wouldn’t we all love to live in a world where it’s so simple.”

D’Artagnan’s expression flickers with something hot and surprised and annoyed all at once, and he opens his mouth to respond. Perhaps fortunately, he does not get the chance to; Porthos, blessedly, has returned from the other room.

Porthos -- as the best person Constance is currently acquainted with -- hesitates in the doorway, bulky frame nearly filling the whole thing, and takes a moment to blink at their awkward standoff. Constance breaks eye-contact first, turning her face deliberately away from d’Artagnan’s to look expectantly at Porthos. She realizes she can’t quite muster eye-contact without doing something utterly unreasonable, like bursting into tears, so she focuses on the brightly-coloured bandana that he’s wearing wrapped around his hair.

“What’s happened?” she asks, as breezily as she can manage. Not particularly breezy, but she did make an effort.

Porthos frowns slightly, glancing between the two of them -- d’Artagnan is still frowning at her incredulously -- before settling his gaze on Constance.

“Well,” he says, drawing the words out slowly and a little uncertainly. “She’s gone.”

“ _Finally_ ,” groans Constance, slapping her hand to her forehead.

“But,” says Porthos, making her freeze in her attempt to get up from the floor -- and here is the _real_ clincher -- “Athos is, uh -- hiding in your back shed?”

Constance blinks at him.

“I see,” she says.

“Yeah,” says Porthos.

Constance determinedly does not look back down at d’Artagnan to assess his reaction. Instead, she rises to her feet unceremoniously, and takes a deep and soldiering breath. The food stuffs lining the shelves of her very practical pantry seem to be mocking her, and despite Porthos’s good news she feels rather miserable.

And she’s still got to do the damn accounts, too.

“I suppose nothing ought to phase me now,” Constance declares to the room at large, or perhaps the universe itself, before pushing away from d’Artagnan’s side and deliberately not making eye contact with a somewhat bewildered Porthos as she marches out of the pantry.

**

Apologizing to people is a miserable business, all things considered.

It makes you hot all over, and then cold all over, and then suddenly and very acutely aware of your own faults. Because usually, of course, _you_ must be the the one at fault -- why else would you apologize? The tendency to apologize for things not truly a result of her own misconduct is something Constance has grappled with for what certainly _feels_ like always, although perhaps a more objective observer (equipped with a time machine and a shrewd pair of eyes) might say that a Constance in her seventh or eighth year of life had no qualms loudly decrying what was _not_ her fault, and putting those responsible in their rightful place.

Time, it seems, has had some scuffles with this aspect of Constance’s erstwhile personality, and she is no longer always so quick to stand her ground.

Constance tugs her jacket around herself more tightly to ward off the cold air and picks up her pace as the front steps of the local library come into view. The door is brown and peeling, but not quite as dull as the grey outside, and it stands out rather nicely against the pale concrete exterior of the building.

Anne is waiting for her, as expected, on the edge of the steps, fair cheeks pinkened by the weather and not a hair out of place despite the sharp wind; she smiles when she spots Constance, her cheeks dimpling, and spreads her arms in anticipation.

Constance smiles back, a bit breathless by the top step.

“Anne --”

“Oh, hello, darling,” says Anne, wrapping Constance in her delicate but firm embrace. She places one hand against the small of Constance’s back, and another against her hair, and presses her cheek against the bundle of Constance’s scarf. For a brief moment, Constance simply lets herself fold into the comfort of her best friend. She clings to her, just a little bit; it is so very easy to let things go unexplained and still be comforted, Constance thinks, when one has best friends.

“I’m so very glad you’re here,” Anne tells her, when they pull apart, in that odd sincere way of hers. “Even if you’re bound here by errands and not me.”

Constance has to huff out a laugh at that. “You know I’d drop all my errands to come to you, love.”

“Oh, I _know_ ,” says Anne, sounding like she very much does; Constance’s chest fills with warmth, and she cannot help but smile softly as Anne takes a deep breath as though absorbing the friendship she’s just been offered. “But now,” says Anne, “you’ve said you need that manual on fixing toilets and that’s terribly practical of you Constance and I admire it.”

“It’s not very glamorous,” Constance says. She laughs rather self-deprecatingly as Anne sweeps her into the little library she’s so fond of, but Anne only says,

“I admire you nonetheless, Constance, you must know that.”

“I do know, Anne,” says Constance, in a mirror of their exchange a moment before, as they step through the door.

The library, too, is not a very glamorous place -- not nearly enough to logically be a favorite location of the elegant mayor’s wife, who wears real pearls around her neck nearly every day, and Constance feels another surge of affection towards Anne and the library alike as they’re suddenly surrounded by the musty smell of old books and very dim lighting. Run by the local Church and unofficially named Mother Superior’s domain, the library has been around for almost as long as Constance has. She can spot some regulars huddled in its different nooks and crannies: Madame Marchand with her thick bug-like spectacles and Old Pierre with his dingy overcoat and fingerless gloves. The rows of book stacks, wedged nearly floor to ceiling, face the two of them, and this coupled with the familiar hushed tone of whispers makes Constance want to suppress a grin.

This surge of affection fades rather quickly; her worn sneakers slide a little against the industrially-carpeted floor, and the dim lighting reminds her of the inside of her sorry excuse for a back shed.

And -- everything else.

It took them nearly half an hour to coax Athos to come out of the shed, she remembers, and that was only with Porthos’s stalwart, if confused, help. Upon emerging, Athos had offered Constance a garbled apology and all but swept Cat and a pair of clean socks along with him right back to the Inspector’s Office downtown, out of which Aramis reports he’s not left since. The door is locked, and everything.

The Woman, of _course_ , is nowhere to be found.  

Constance refuses to be bothered by this, just as she is refusing to be bothered by the two, awkward interactions she’s had with d’Artagnan since their camp-out in the pantry, or the lingering distaste of her tepid Boyfriend Apology at the back of her mouth. It seems by some terrible turn of happenstance that she’s incapable of being on decent terms with both Jacques and d’Artagnan at the same time, which is a sudden thought that Constance shoves rather aggressively to the back of her mind.

She doesn’t have _time_ to be bothered by any of this nonsense, not when her inn’s falling apart at the seams.

Three days has been enough time that her foul mood has been somewhat muted, and is now a dull, simmering uneasiness, perhaps smothered by the sheer necessity for practicalness. Of course, Constance doesn’t like dull, simmering uneasinesses, even more than she doesn’t like unpredictable weather, so she is determined to devoutly ignore both of these things, too, in this required venture out of the inn.

“Here again, Madame de Bourbon!”

Mother Superior’s unshakeable voice interrupts Constance’s rather unproductive internal monologue, as she is seen making a beeline through the stacks towards the two of them. Clad in a blouse just as starched but not quite as grey as the last time Constance saw her, she comes forward and pats both Anne and Constance on the upper arm -- more of a firm clasp than a pat, really, and it makes Constance feel abruptly cared for in a way that Jacques’ pats never do.

This, of course, reminds her suddenly of her rather weakly-thought-out apology to Jacques of just that morning, which causes the warmth that had filled Constance’s chest upon entering the library to deflate even more. Almost a week of coldness and fumbling foolishness and doing the accounts on her own -- and while she didn’t mind accounts, she did have _so_ much else to get on with -- and for what? She herself wasn’t sure anymore, only that Jacques had accepted her apology with none of his own, but very gracefully nonetheless. A simple, “Well, I forgive you Constance,” and a rather condescending pat on her arm.

She can still feel it, that awkward pat, so different from Mother Superior’s firm grip and Anne’s gentle hold. Markedly inauthentic, Constance suddenly thinks, compared with the memory of every time d’Artagnan has so warmly clasped her shoulder or her hand.

But then, what business has he doing those things, anyway?

“Well, it’s always a blessin’ to have you, sweet girl,” Mother Superior is saying. “And you, Mademoiselle Baudin,” the old woman gives her a sharp, appraising look; Constance squirms a little. “How shall I help you today?”

“Oh -- you’ve no need, I can --”

“Constance is looking for a manual on fixing toilets,” Anne says firmly, linking arms with Constance. “You must appreciate her for her tremendous sense of practicality and determination, Mother Superior, mustn’t you?”

“Toilets!” says Mother Superior, flapping her hands upwards in a way that somehow still appears devoutly no-nonsense. “God’s blessing and curse all at once, they are. Terribly good for public sanitation, terribly bad for my old back when there’s plumbing to fix.”

“I am sure you have just the right book, Mother Superior -- you must.”

“Of course I must!” She nods, and shakes her fist, as though rallying the troops. “To the back we go, girls!”

For the first time in what seems like a whole _age_ , Constance feels herself breathe something of a sigh of relief.

“Thanks, Mother Superior,” says Constance, as they make their way through the shelves. The walls are made of badly-done plaster, but a strategic placement of orange lamps -- definitely Anne, Constance thinks -- casts a warm, flickering light over them that makes it look as though there’s a fireplace somewhere in the room. Mismatched knick knacks of church paraphernalia line the odd table and one of the cabinets carries two rusty, unused candelabras. Above the reception desk hangs an old but rather tasteful painting of the Holy Mother, smiling benevolently down upon those who’ve sought haven in the dingy little library. Closer to the back, the lighting is far more natural and white, coming in through tall windows that face a few appropriated church pews placed there for any tough-bottomed person who wishes to brave them and read a book, or perhaps say their prayers.

“Oh!” says Anne suddenly, “you must also allow me to show you my work with the back room, once we’ve found your book, Constance.” She’s smiling sweetly at the end, with a quality to it that might be called shy. Constance turns to her, the end of her ponytail flicking around with the enthusiasm of it, remembering.

“The back room!” says Constance, grasping Anne’s hands tightly. “You were allowed to donate the money, then?”

Her back facing them as she braves her way through the haphazardly-placed bookshelves, Mother Superior makes an indecipherable noise. “She was, thank His Grace.”

But Anne, quite uncharacteristically, snorts at this question.

“Allowed!” says Anne. There is something almost like bitterness to it -- were Anne ever the sort to be bitter about things -- that makes Constance turn to look at her friend curiously as she finally pulls off her gloves. Under Constance’s scrutiny, Anne looks startled by her own outburst; she purses her lips such that her cheeks pinch, and inhales through her nose, and seems to remember herself before continuing somewhat breezily: “That _was_ a funny notion he brought up, wasn’t it? I’ve my own money from before I married him, so there isn’t any reason why I can’t use it as I like.”

“And you keep doin’ so, Madame, like the Lord intended,” says Mother Superior, with an air of finality.

Like the Lord intended indeed -- for donations to local libraries, Constance supposes somewhat harshly, and not for continuing a higher education or moving _out_ of this bloody town.

She feels her stomach go a little cold at the vicious tone of her own thoughts, and swallows against it.

“I did think it was odd when you first mentioned it,” offers Constance, tactful. Mother Superior has now stopped, and is perusing one of the more mismatched looking shelves, rather intent on finding Constance her toilet book. Anne stands a bit taller and seems to square her shoulders, clasping her hands together before she turns back to Constance. She’s softened her expression, but still looks ... uncomfortable.

“It all worked out in the end, and Louis didn’t mean badly, so I must make the best of it and move forward,” says Anne, and then adds, “as you do, dear Constance.”

“Oh,” says Constance, caught off guard. “Oh -- Anne, you know I’m not -- Anne -- thanks, Mother Superior -- _Anne_.” This last bit is delivered as half of a reprimand, as she takes the book Mother Superior is handing her rather absently. Let it never be said that Constance hasn’t always been a perceptive sort, swooping down upon even the mildest of her friends’ grievances with little regard for her own.

Constance watches carefully now as Anne pinches her lips again, offering a slight crease of eyebrows before heaving a very quiet but rather un-Anne-like sigh.

“He’s at the bank, now,” says Anne, looking away, towards a lone trolley of children’s books, a faint note to her voice. “I don’t know for what, as he wouldn’t tell me about it. And Monsieur Richelieu kept insisting it was mayor’s business -- haven’t I anything to contribute to being mayor? But I’ve been floating in the cafe by _Pepin_ ’s all morning, Constance, it’s been --” she looks pained -- “dreadfully boring.”

“Well then I’m _glad_ you called me, Anne,” says Constance firmly, as Mother Superior tuts and appears to be righting odd books on the shelf, a tactful attempt at feigning deafness to the perceived privateness of their conversation.

“Oh --” begins Anne, and Constance in the months to come will think that had they not been interrupted at that exact moment, Anne might have let out her deepest most buried grievances on the end of that exhale, and Constance, seeing her own self reflected in her best friend’s eyes, will have swiftly followed.

As it is, they are interrupted, and Anne does not get very far, for her attention is quite suddenly and completely diverted.

“Mother Superior, while I’m truly honoured by the faith you have in my librarianal abilities, you never instructed me upon where to put these -- Constance! And A -- Madame!”

For all that Constance must look a tired mess and Anne aggrieved, the familiar lanky figure who has appeared from behind one of the stacks and is carrying what appears to be half a bookshelf in his arms breaks out into the warmest and happiest of smiles at the sight of them.

“Mary and Joseph! René, you could’ve put those down ‘til I came back.” Mother Superior is already hobbling between them and reaching to take some of his books, exasperation settling under her sensible grey eyebrows. Aramis very gracefully ignores her, and lifts the books a bit higher such that she mightn’t burden herself with them, and continues to grin.

“What brings you here today, dear Constance? Madame de Bourbon is, of course, the kindest and most generous patroness this fine establishment has known, and so her presence is expected you see.” He finishes this unexpectedly quiet and sincere statement with a small incline of his head in Anne’s direction; Anne beams. Constance feels herself relax in the warm glow of Anne’s brightened mood, and, Aramis’s unique brand of heedless friendship exactly what the bland tone of the day was begging for, allows herself to laugh.

“Only getting a book.”

“A book! Ah, we have finally turned the sensible Constance into a useless poetess, then.”

“Nothing of the sort,” says Constance hastily, as Anne laughs with the lilt of someone sharing a joke. “If you _must_ know, it’s about plumbing.”

Aramis looks delighted. “Constance, you never cease to amaze me.”

“Don’t tease,” says Anne, once more gripping Constance’s arm in solidarity. “She’s only being practical faced with tremendous odds. I do believe she thinks God has forsaken her and her poor plumbing.”

Mother Superior looks only slightly unimpressed by their attribution of God’s protection to the state of Constance’s toilets.

“Let’s get these books on a trolley, Monsieur d’Herblay, before they topple over onto my head,” she says, dry as dust. This time she is fast enough to thwart Aramis’s gallantry, plucking the top half of his stack from his arms and letting it thump down onto her trusty trolley, the handle of which she then grips with great steadfastness. “The only thing forsaken ‘round these parts is my bookshelves’ organization.”

But Aramis only appears overjoyed by the slightly heretical turn their silliness seems to have taken, which Constance supposes is really par for course -- she has rather clear memories of he and Porthos once carrying on an impassioned debate about the colour scheme of the library’s Virgin Mary painting whilst heavily inebriated.

“I assure you, Constance,” he says now, “you _will_ vanquish those toilets.”

“And find her way back to God,” offers Anne, a statement that manages to be demure while still betraying an uncharacteristically teasing glint in Anne’s eye, one which seems to bring light to her whole face. Constance cannot remember the last time Anne had teasing glints in her eyes, and is thus distracted enough to miss the thick peeling paperback Aramis has extracted from his dwindled pile and is tapping wisely.

“To shamelessly mis-contextualize our dear literary friend Abbe Faria,” Aramis says, looking very earnest about it, “you may not believe in God, but God believes in you.”

“Oh, Monte Cristo!” says Anne, brightening even further, to which Aramis says, “You’ve read it, Madame?” with renewed delight, and Constance, who is really too tired to be following all these ridiculous trains of thought, says, “I _do_ believe in God -- it’s my toilets who’ve lost their way.”

“A bad influence on these fine young women,” announces Mother Superior, emerging with her rickety trolley out of the bookshelves. Aramis breaks off into laughter and skips a little backwards to avoid the flick of the old woman’s reprimanding wrist, three books still sandwiched under his free arm. “I asked your help stacking books, not spoutin’ nonsense, now I admire a good joke, I do, but not when there’s work to be done! Heaven knows Mademoiselle Baudin understands --”

“Mademoiselle Baudin is too busy with her pipes to worry about my humble wit, Mother Superior,” says Aramis gravely. Constance snorts good-naturedly, which Aramis seems to take as his cue to address Anne directly over their heads. “She shall be victorious in her efforts, don’t you think Madame?”

“I’m certain of it,” avows Anne, with equal gravitas, and finally Constance cannot help but burst into laughter to the background noises of Mother Superior’s grumblings.

“And when did you two become thick as thieves?” she asks, mostly of Aramis, as she nudges Anne’s hip with her own. “Ganging up on a poor helpless inn owner with traitorous plumbing, now, that’s just unfair.”

Anne’s laughter has quieted, and she glances away with a small, confusing sort of smile as though caught -- not before squeezing Constance’s hand in her own -- but Aramis’s expression has softened, even though there is a slight flicker of hesitation that flashes across his face at her comment. But it goes as swiftly as it comes, and as his own laughter fades naturally into the space around them, he offers Constance a gentle smile.

“Complete happenstance,” he offers. “We both were simply naturally inclined towards making you laugh today, Constance.”

Constance blinks at him, caught off-guard at the sincerity. She supposes she _shouldn’t_ be, with Aramis. He doesn’t elaborate, which Constance realizes suddenly she is very grateful for, and where Anne’s delicate hand is resting against her arm she reaches over and squeezes it back.

“Well -- mind you don’t make a habit of it, as I’ve things to do.”

“You are always so dedicated to your things, Constance,” says Anne, and this is not a reprimand nor a compliment, but simply a statement of fact.

“Yes, well,” says Constance. D’Artagnan’s voice is suddenly very clear in her head: _Come on, Constance. You can do anything if you put your mind to it_. A flutter of the morning’s discomfort worms its way back into her chest; she lifts her chin a bit and remains facing Aramis, ignoring this flutter religiously. “And what are you up to here, then? Just helping around?”

“Ah,” says Aramis, smoothly allowing Constance her out with not more than a quick, warm smile, “no, you see, I only set out this morning to find a book -- on Pascal, and not toilets -- and it was Mother Superior who conned me into hauling around her bookshelves.” He raises his voice a bit at the end, glancing conspicuously back down the shelves to where the old woman and her trolley disappeared before winking at Constance. She rolls her eyes, but smiles nonetheless; Aramis’s good humor is frustratingly infectious, most times -- exponentially so when coupled with Porthos’s, but plenty potent enough on its own.

“Your willingness to help does you credit, monsieur,” says Anne, still quiet, from around Constance’s shoulder. “I only hope that I share it.”

Immediately Aramis’s teasing expression softens, not unlike the marshmallows Constance always drops in the morning hot chocolate. “I am sure Mother Superior would be lost without your constant supportive presence, Madame.”

Anne diverts her eyes again, to the chairs by the front where people are bundled, either with books or papers, one sat at the lone computer -- Madame Marchand, Constance recognizes, as Anne says, “I like feeling useful. And I enjoy coming and talking to the people who spend so much time here. They’ve such rich lives to tell me about, and no one else seems to ask them -- Madame Marchand has a degree in astrophysics, did you know?”

Constance did not know, and she now looks over at the middle-aged woman hunched over the library’s only and dusty desktop monitor and bites her lip.

“I wonder why she didn’t stay in the city.”

“Dear Madame Marchand had to come and take care of her father,” comes Mother Superior’s voice, announcing the return of the squeaking trolley. “Her brothers’d all moved away, and she was the only one left to do it. Forgetfulness of the mind,” adds the old woman, tapping a knowledgeable finger against her own temple.

“And she never got back into it again?”

“Oh, it’s hard to do it when you’ve developed habits around a place,” says Mother Superior. “Heaven knows it’s harder when you haven’t much income of your own. She likes to come in here and read her old texts.”

She finishes with a firm nod; Constance feels her shoulders sag. Aramis has gone silent, something guarded behind his eyes, but Anne looks once more aggrieved.

“Like poor Mercedes,” she says, “caught in an unfortunate situation she couldn’t control.”

“Anne!”

Constance, Anne and Mother Superior all start -- Aramis’s head only jerks sharply -- at the sudden, overloud voice that sounds in the quiet of the library. Wrapped in an embroidered coat that looks more expensive than all of Constance’s possessions put together, a purple scarf trailing from his neck, the man striding towards them over the worn library carpet is immediately recognizable -- none other than their small town’s ostentatious mayor, otherwise known as Anne’s somewhat inattentive husband.

Louis de Bourbon is not a tall man, but possesses a degree of self-importance that renders him at every turn oblivious to his shortness of stature. Like Jacques (Constance has always thought), he possesses the sort of face that _could_ be attractive if he tried, or, perhaps, was a more considerate sort of fellow, but as is does not make the most striking of impressions. Unlike Jacques, this shortcoming can be attributed not to his own inherent Louis-ness, but more to his vulpine, domineering mother, who had several years ago been finally confined to an old age home two counties over -- a day the mayor had spent lounging about in his apartments and looking mournfully out of windows, and the mayor’s wife had spent playing the role of a dutiful, consoling spouse, before slipping away in the evening to get properly drunk with Constance in celebration.

Of course, Louis’s mother is no longer here to poke her nose where it does not belong, nor to make Anne’s life miserable -- Constance thinks with a stout sense of vindication -- but Louis, whilst perhaps not actively malicious, remains, as had been gently hinted at by his beleaguered but still soft-spoken wife, somewhat of a self-centered fool.

He is currently striding impatiently over to them (he would have bowled over one of the library’s few guests had he been a larger man) to come up and hover by Anne’s arm.

“ _There_ you are,” he says, when he has finally reached them, with all the tone of a man who might have just climbed the himalayas in search of his great inconvenience of a spouse. “I’ve simply been looking all _over_ for you, Anne. Ridiculous business, you just disappearing off like that.”

“I waited by _Pepin’s_ for nearly three hours, Louis,” says Anne quietly, her hands clasped over her abdomen.

Louis makes an unattractive noise that is supposed to be a put-upon sigh.

“A fine afternoon to you, Monsieur le Mayor,” says Mother Superior, inclining her head slightly.

“Yes yes, whatever,” says Louis, flapping his hand rather awkwardly before wrapping it around Anne’s arm. Mother Superior’s expression remains undisturbed, but Constance cannot help but notice how Aramis’s brows have gone tense, a certain stiffness to the lines of his usually mild and gentle features. “For heaven’s sake Anne.”

“I was only a turn away,” Anne says, in that gentle way people have when they’re trying to remain reasonable about something that is being blown out of proportion. “If you were worried --”

“Have you been here this whole time?” Louis interrupts her, wrinkling his nose at what appears to be the library at large, encompassing within it the tasteful lighting and homely occupants and perhaps Mother Superior as well; Constance and Aramis appear to be nothing at all of consequence, as Louis has not bothered to look in their direction. “What a miserable little place -- why would you come _here_?”

“I like it here,” says Anne, quickly and firmly.

“Yes, you always like the most uninteresting things,” says Louis, sighing once more. “Well do come on, we can’t keep Armand waiting -- he’s an important man, as am _I_ \-- being the mayor is so dreadfully dull sometimes, Anne, you’ve no idea --”

Constance cannot help but feel that Louis did not hear what Anne said at all, and twists the hand not holding her much-needed toilet book into the hem of her jacket. She turns away so as not to continue watching the rather dismaying exchange, and her eyes travel to the open front door of the library -- Louis had not bothered to close it -- where for a moment Constance catches the angular figure of the severe-looking mayor’s aid, hovering ominously. Abruptly, she remembers what d’Artagnan had said that fateful day in the park, and something queer twists in her stomach. She turns back; Louis is still talking, and, oddly enough, Aramis appears to be visibly biting down on his own cheek.

“I’ll be alright on my own here, Anne,” says Constance quickly, cutting neatly through the nattering and causing Anne to look to her with an expression that hovers at that particular middle ground between relieved and beseeching. “If you’ve got to go home.”

“It is getting late, after all,” says Anne, hesitant, sounding as though what she’d really like to do is stay up until dawn.

“Yes _do_ come on, Anne,” says Louis, tugging at the sleeve of her soft wool coat and all but herding her towards the door.

“I would like to come again, Mother Superior --”

“I’ll phone you!” calls Constance, and then Anne is gone, the door of the library still hanging open and letting the cold late-autumn air float inside.

Madame Marchand looks up from her computer, blinking behind her buggy spectacles, and sniffs loudly.

Constance stares uselessly at the open doorway for another moment before turning back to her companions; Mother Superior has already gone back to her trolley, a sensible set to her jaw, but Aramis remains standing in place and glaring in the direction Louis and Anne left. “Poor thing, she was going to show me the back room,” says Constance, a heaviness to her voice borne of something she’s long since come to realize she can’t do much about. At the silence that answers her, she raises her eyebrows: “Aramis?”

He starts, and seems to shake himself before focusing again on Constance, the harder lines of his face melting away in an instant.

“Yes -- it’s quite marvellous, I’ve seen it already.”

“Yeah,” says Constance, slowly, feeling herself frown with little personal clarity on why she’s doing it. “Is everything --”

“Constance,” says Aramis suddenly. “Are you alright? Truly?”

Constance’s brows jump again, and she blinks. She’s not sure what’s prompted him to ask this so abruptly, but then, hasn’t _everyone_ been doing the same thing? _Are you alright, Constance_ , and she’s running out of answers to give, which is something that annoys her now on top of everything else. She’s turned into the awful weather she hates so much, she thinks, never quite knowing what she’s about.

“I -- I don’t know,” she says, rather lamely, still half-turned in the direction Anne left.

Aramis brings his head down to meet Constance’s eyes, one warm hand coming up to rest gently on her shoulder. His bangs have slipped down to hang over his forehead, and there’s an earnest set to his sharp eyebrows that makes Constance quite suddenly feel another of those dreadful lumps poke up in her throat.

“I meant it, earlier,” he says, not unkindly. “You looked like you needed a laugh.”

“And your nonsense is certainly enough to get me there,” says Constance, something rough in her voice. She doesn’t look away, but feels suddenly vulnerable in a way that she doesn’t like. She’s known Aramis for an age -- but that’s all the more reason for her to avoid his brotherly concern, because she can feel it right under her skin that if she attempts to sort through her feelings now, with a listening ear at her disposal, heaven knows whether she’ll be able to pull herself together again.

There’s just simply no _time_ , for that, today.

Aramis takes another careful step forward, uncharacteristically hesitant. He’s still wearing that little necklace, she notices, the one with the crucifix, and she wonders suddenly why it looks so awfully familiar.

“Constance,” he starts, “you do know that if there’s anything you need at all --”

But Constance is rescued from answering before he gets any further, the sudden ringing of her phone sounding so loudly in the quiet, spartan library that she nearly jumps. She feels the grounding warmth of Aramis’s hand disappear as she raises her arm to get the phone to her ear, and she offers him an apologetic look before answering:

“Hello?”

And this is, of course, when things take a turn for the somewhat unexpected.

**

_Knock knock knock_.

The sharp sting of the wood against her knuckles only feels amplified in the cold. Ridiculous, that the inside hallway of a building is so cold. No self-respecting person has a front hallway this freezing, even if they’re the town’s only constabulary. The law can _wait_ , in Constance’s opinion, when there’s general heating to be fixed.

Constance raises her fist again, squaring her shoulders as she does. There’s dust in the corner too, she notices. Someone ought to sweep that up -- it’s terribly unsightly.

_Knock --_

The door opens with a creak and the slight jingle of a bell; Constance’s knuckles nearly smack right into the face in front of her.

Athos certainly does not _look_ like a man who only last week hid in a shed to avoid his hitherto unknown marital problems. This is something Constance thinks despite his vaguely uncombed mop of hair -- his shirt is buttoned righteously and pressed, and his pale eyes quite alert, and while his scarf looks a bit rumpled, that is nothing out of the ordinary. He blinks at her, twice, before a twitch of concern registers within his expression and his eyes widen _just_ so.

“Constance? Is something the matter?”

This does little to diminish the rather large amount of self-righteousness with which Constance made the short trip to the Inspector’s office. She has, as established, grown tired of people asking her if she’s alright, which is an inquiry that’s really made _worse_ when the inquirer recently absconded with a cat through her hallway window.

As such, Constance crosses her arms over her chest, the toilet book Mother Superior gifted her with still in hand, having come here directly from the library.

“I could ask the same of you,” she says, in as condemning a voice as she can manage. Not particularly condemning, as Porthos has sadly informed her in the past, because she’s an all-around far too caring person to be appropriately scathing in her indictments.

(This annoys Constance very much, even more than unpredictable weather and the gentle concern of others, so she tries hard to raise her eyebrows in a suitably unimpressed manner, here.)

Athos’s supposedly aristocratic nose twitches.

“Everything is perfectly fine, Mademoiselle.”

“Is it really,” says Constance.

“Yes, it is quite --” There is a faint _mrow_ from below, and he startles just slightly as Cat slinks her way past his thin legs and into the hallway. “Cat, please come back here --”

Athos addresses the escaping feline as though reasoning with a fellow person, but his very formal argumentation is interrupted before he can convince Cat to remain in the office.

“Ah, Mademoiselle Baudin!” 

Athos makes a very faint, distressed noise as Cat makes her cheerful escape into the dusty hall.

Inspector Jean-Armand Treville must have had the air of a military man starting as soon as the moment of his very birth, Constance thinks. This is something that has always paired brilliantly with his perpetually thinning hair and the clipped formality of his address. Always very articulate, Inspector Treville, even when he is good-naturedly startling his favorite deputy.

The Inspector, who is dressed as crisply as always and who has righted his previously-ruffled mustache, takes a short sip from his mug of coffee before depositing it in Athos’s hands.

“Hello, Captain,” says Constance. Athos blinks again; she can see the gears in his head working, a little.

"I am not a captain of anything anymore," Treville reminds her habitually, as he begins to very economically shrug on his grey overcoat. “Well! I am off to investigate our lead -- you’ll be alright here, won’t you?”

“Lead,” says Athos, as though he cannot quite comprehend the word.

“Quite,” says Treville, fixing his cuffs with brusque movements and raising his ever-triangular and severe eyebrows. “You’re in good health, Constance?” he asks, nodding in Constance’s direction.

“As well as can be,” says Constance, as honestly as she can manage.

“Did you have business to attend to, Constance,” asks Athos through what appears to be gritted teeth, only he is as bad as gritting his teeth as Constance is at sounding condescending.The underneaths of his eyes are twitching, as though he would like to narrow them, but is stopping himself just in time.

“No,” says Constance.

Ah, there it is -- the narrowing of the eyes. He has lost his battle, it seems.

“I shall leave you to it, then,” says Treville cheerfully, patting Athos twice on the shoulder and offering Constance another curt nod before slipping past his deputy into the cold hallway. “Excuse me.”

The heavy, metal front door, that always swings too hard, slams shut behind him.

“Inspector Treville called me,” Constance says, in case that was not manifestly obvious already.

“I can assure you --” Athos begins, closing his eyes briefly before raising them heavenwards, looking as though God Himself has cursed him with terrible luck in the form of their mutual fatherly friend, Jean-Armand.

“He said you owed me an apology,” Constance says, with little mercy. She adds a sniff for good measure, and waits for Athos to respond.

Of all her wayward veteran tenants, Constance has been friends with Athos the longest. He has always been a touch less scattered than Aramis, and a touch less intimidating than Porthos, and when Constance was seventeen and did not know any of her parents’ new lodgers these were characteristics rightfully valued. He’d always be terribly good about helping her through her upper year maths homework, too, which is perhaps why last month when he nearly got fired due to that mix up at the mayor’s office, Constance put everything on hold to take a trip down to city hall with Aramis and Porthos and figure out who’d made the ridiculous clerical error.

Now, Constance stands her ground, watching as Athos grips Treville’s mug with whitening knuckles. She can faintly make out the peeling _World’s Sexiest Grandma_ stamped over the front of the white ceramic, which means that it was almost undoubtedly at some point an unsolicited joint gift from Aramis and Porthos.

There is a very long, awkward beat, wherein Constance nearly thinks that Athos is _not_ going to respond -- or, indeed, has gone entirely mute -- but then he takes a deep breath through his nose and says,

“Would you like to come in.”

Constance shuffles her way into the cramped office.

She remembers the neat filing cabinet to the side, the wilting potted plant in the corner, and the lone coffee maker on the edge of one of two desks. With another faint _mrow_ , Cat slinks back into the room; there is general silence as both Athos and Constance watch her climb over Treville’s office chair and perch atop the filing cabinet.

“Constance,” Athos begins.

“I’m not here because I expect any sordid details,” Constance blurts out. “Only you seem to know things I don’t and there really _is_ some decorum to be considered, when jumping out of windows on people, and I’d just like to know if --”

“Constance,” Athos interrupts her, his voice quiet. There is a soft urgency to it that makes Constance fall silent immediately, the frustration bubbling so merrily in her chest dwindling to a tepid standstill. “I deeply apologize for my behaviour.”

“I --”

“ _And_ … you are right to be distressed. I have not been honest with you, and you are under a great deal of pressure as it is. You may ask me what you wish, Constance.”

He finishes this announcement by steadily meeting her gaze, but Constance is no fool. She can see the tightness of his chin and lips, just as well as she can see the tastefully subtle pattern along his scarf. She looks away, confused and upset, and her eyes fall on a photograph she had missed before: a grainy shot of the group of them, smiling, in a corner of the inn’s cafe. Constance is sitting down at one of her tables, evidently halfway through telling the photographer something of great importance. Porthos is in the middle of laughing uproariously to her right; Aramis’s grinning face is hovering in the corner far too close to the shot; d’Artagnan’s knobbly brown elbow is visible somewhere in the background; and Athos --

Athos is offering a small, rare smile to the camera, and accepting the arm Constance has slung over his shoulder.

Constance feels her irritation drain out of her chest completely, something warm and considerate taking its place. This is terribly inconvenient, as she really had been _so_ set on continuing to be annoyed for just a little while longer.

Cat has climbed down from her perch, and is now dedicating herself to winding around Athos’s legs again and again with great diligence.

“Have you got any other mysterious wives lying about,” asks Constance after a moment, not unkindly.

Athos makes a complicated sort of face. “I do not think so, no.”

“Right,” says Constance, licking her lips. “Right.” She takes a deep breath; even in the office, the air is still cold. “Should I be worried about,” she finds that she doesn’t quite know what to say, “... anything?”

“Yes,” says Athos immediately. “But you are perfectly safe, Constance.”

This is not particularly helpful, but Constance very deliberately lets it pass.

“I see,” says Constance, gripping onto her toilet book like a talisman. “Because of -- of The Woman?”

“The woman,” says Athos.

“Your wife,” says Constance, a bit weakly.

“No,” says Athos, once again immediately. “The Cardinal. My wife shall cause you no harm -- I was simply startled by the fact that she is no longer in jail.”

Constance does not exactly know where to start.

“In jail,” she says, for lack of another opener.

“Yes,” says Athos, as though this is must be very obvious. “I arrested her.”

If Constance did not know exactly know where to start before, it is truly anyone’s guess _now_. She blinks at him, several times, very rapidly, with her mouth hanging open; Athos stands awkwardly by the desk, the hems of his pants slowly collecting white cat hairs, looking miserable.

“I … see,” says Constance, after a very long pause. “And -- The Cardinal --”

“Yes,” says Athos, for a third time immediately, his shoulders relaxing very marginally now that the conversation has veered into apparently more comfortable territories. “We suspect that he is dealing with several associates from out of town, and that this is somehow related to the Mayor’s income. I am sure that it is nothing of concern to you, Mademoiselle Baudin, but I avow to keep you informed regardless.”

“Oh -- oh. I see,” says Constance, in an objectively lame fashion. She feels that such a tone has no business being present in her arsenal of tones, and so makes a faint noise of distaste and squares her shoulders for what feels like the umpteenth time in the past hour. “And shall I have any words with anyone in particular if they show up at my door again?”

Athos looks for a moment alarmed, before his expression slowly relaxes into something that might, by some, be called fond.

“No, Mademoiselle. That is not necessary.”

“I’ve been told I can be very intimidating,” Constance insists. “I’d say I have d’Artagnan to back me up, but --”

Well. It would be a bit unfair of her to ask him to face his murder-frame-ee, wouldn’t it.

Just as it _was_ a bit unfair of her to react at him so uncharitably the other day, when he was only attempting to offer encouragement and support. Constance bites back a grimace, now -- something Athos does not seem to miss, judging by the minute shift in his expression, but he is as considerate as her as she is of him, it seems, and he says nothing -- only a quiet,

“Your gallantry is appreciated, Constance, but may be put to better use elsewhere.”

Constance fumbles for a moment, gripping once more at her book.

“Right then,” she finally settles on.

Cat _mrows_ loudly from between Athos’s legs.

“I am sure you have a great many things to attend to,” Athos says, still in that quiet voice, which Constance takes for what it is meant to be.

“I do. Better be off then.”

“Indeed.”

“Shall I have your rent by the end of this week, then, Monsieur?”

“You shall, Mademoiselle. I am never late on it, you see.”

“Of course you aren’t, are you.” Constance is hovering, and very well aware of the fact. “Athos --”

“Constance.”

“Are you quite sure you’ll be alright?” she says, finally, leaning forward just a little bit. Inspector Treville has still not returned, so she feels rather like she has the space to make this inquiry, now. But Athos only makes a noise that is not so much a sigh as it is the implication of one. He does not say anything for a moment, looking down at Cat, and then back up at Constance.

“I am,” he says.

“Alright,” says Constance. She feels oddly lighter than she did before, even the memory of The Woman’s frightening heels and the prospect of delivering yet _another_ apology looking somewhat less intimidating in the pale light of the Inspectors’ office.

And, though it may not be quite enough in objective terms, that is that for the time being.

**

“Ah, to be out of doors the day of a first snowfall! It is truly so beautiful when it snows, Constance, don’t you think?”

“You’re going to be complaining about it in less than a week,” says Constance, stepping carefully through the powdery snow that comes up to her shins, making sure that her grip on her groceries is responsibly tight. “That’s what happens every season, Aramis, you know Porthos will agree with me --”

“Porthos has not one romantic bone in his body,” says Aramis cheerfully, hefting the two bags that he is carrying and taking a deep breath of the cold wintery air, his face turned skywards. “And I love him dearly for it, Constance, but there’s something about the taste of the air after the first true snowfall that you’ll never get anywhere else --”

“Mind you don’t drop the peas,” says Constance, but the fondness grows in her chest nonetheless.

December has finally arrived, and with it the first proper snowfall of the year, coating the streets in a blanket of fluffy ice that their lone plow truck has yet to clean up. Constance is necessarily wading through the drifts on a quest to complete her middle-of-the-week grocery list, bundled up appropriately against the elements and with her trusty snow boots finally fetched out of storage. Her troubles, while not quite forgotten, have mellowed somewhat, and only two days before d’Artagnan had tentatively offered to help her move the unsightly couch in the lobby three inches to the left, which solidified the slow dissolution of the tension between them and gave Constance ample opportunity to very undeliberately admire his shoulders in a long-sleeved shirt.

This was counterproductive, as many of her interactions with d’Artagnan seem to be. But it was nowhere near as miserable as things were before, and, despite stubborn toilets and peeling wallpaper and bad weather, The Woman has not been heard of in a week -- could really be nothing but a brief bad dream! -- and for all her attempts at sensibility Constance is almost inclined to follow Aramis’s example and breathe a deep and grateful breath of the crisp outdoor air.

Aramis, who had run into her on his way back from work (walking rather than at the wheel of his ancient Honda civic, its unpredictable suspension unfortunately no match for the snow drifts), had warmly offered to carry two of her three bags home. He has now fallen into step with her as she troupes down the sidewalk, cheeks and nose flushed from the cold; he’s not nearly as bundled up as she is, but does not seem to mind, his thin brown coat is open at the front, his favorite blue scarf only hanging loosely around his neck, and his gloves fingerless as though that is in _any_ way sensible in this sort of weather. He walks with a combination of grace and purpose that is unique only to him, and his ever-unruly mop of curls bounces with each step.

She hasn’t really seen him properly since that day at the library, and she can’t help but grin as they make their way down the street: seemingly oblivious to both the cold and Constance’s warnings about the peas, Aramis has shifted so that his backpack hangs more comfortably from his right shoulder, and now starts to sing under his breath.

Constance allows him four verses before interrupting the slightly off-tune French.

“ _\--_ _Un Bien plus grand que tous les trésors de la terre_ \-- oh, don’t turn to violence, Constance, I’m only a humble school teacher enjoying this sidewalk --” For Constance has sacrificed a portion of her stout grip on the groceries to reach over and flick at Aramis’s side.

“Have you always been such a fool, Aramis?”

“Since birth, Madame. _Mais amour infiniiit_ \--”

Constance flicks at him again. “You just naturally attract violence -- oh, bother this snow --”

“It is a gift,” he agrees, long legs kicking up a bit of the snow. “But I’d much rather attract the gentleness of a fair lover, wouldn’t you?”

“As if you’ve got any problems in that area,” says Constance, rocking her bag of groceries a bit like she’s carrying a child. “Really.”

“Oh, you sound like Porthos -- jealousy does not become you, Constance -- but what about the gallant Monsieur Bonacieux?”

Constance’s grin fades, but only a little bit. “What about him?”

“You’re not married yet?”

“ _Aramis_.” Constance, who is feeling her cheeks heat up in a very unwelcome way, shoots him what she hopes is a quelling look.

“That is a perfectly fair inquiry, my friend, but as I seem to have offended --”

“No, no, you haven’t -- I just --” Constance sighs, and shakes her head as though warding off her own silliness. She wonders, suddenly, what d’Artagnan would do if he heard this exchange, and this is a thought that does not help at all with the ridiculous heat in her cheeks. “I suppose you think this is all very easy, falling in and out of love like you do.”   

Aramis, who had turned to humming in the wake of Constance’s embarrassment, falters, and turns his head to look at her curiously.

“Like _I_ do?”

“No, like the peacock down at the park does.”

“Constance,” says Aramis, sounding very near exasperated if he didn’t also sound on the brink of laughing, and so Constance looks over to grin at him sheepishly.

“Sorry. I’ve just been thinking.”

“You’ll have to be more specific, Constance.”

Constance makes a face. “There isn’t anything more specific to it. I just think -- it’d be easier to find love easily. When you’re not so sensible about things, not so -- concerned about the future, I guess.”

Aramis is silent for a moment, which is not odd in its own right, but when Constance glances over at him again, he’s got an odd expression on his face.

“Do you?” he says, finally; his voice is mild as ever, but he looks contemplative, chewing a bit at his bottom lip under his mustache.

“I do,” says Constance, raising an eyebrow. “After Adele moved --”

“ _Ah_ , Adele --”

“No, Aramis, come on -- listen, I have a genuine question --”

“Forgive me, yes, go on.”

“After Adele moved, you said you missed her but it worked out with both of you and was ultimately for the best.”

“Yes,” says Aramis carefully, keeping his eyes trained on Constance. “Because it was, and it did.”

“So?”

“So?” He raises his eyebrows.

Constance feels the snow crunch under her foot as they walk. The streets are very quiet this time of day, even more so now that it’s snowed. “Wasn’t that easier for everyone?”

“I --” Aramis hesitates, as though he’s not sure what he wants to say. “I don’t -- yes, and Adele was a dear friend but -- I don’t know that -- well, you don’t _always_ want that, do you?”

This last bit comes out as though he’s asking a question not only of her but of himself as well, and Constance tilts her head.

“How do you mean,” she says, as they near the bend around which is the town’s only school bus stop.

“Well -- I mean, have you never thought -- there might be a love out there that is so fundamental to your person that it could last forever? Surely you would understand that -- you’ve been with your intrepid boyfriend for quite some time, now.”

“Oh,” says Constance, faltering. “I don’t -- I suppose.”

Somehow, the sudden thought of staying with Jacques forever makes her feel cold all over, and not just because of the wintery weather.

“Starting a family,” clarifies Aramis. “You know, living your whole life with someone -- haven’t you ever thought of it, Constance?”

This is, again, something that comes out sounding as though he himself is only just thinking about it, and so Constance tries to shove her own internal confusion to the side; for some reason, d’Artagnan’s ridiculous laughter from the day they hid in the kitchen pantry is in the forefront of her mind’s eye.

“I suppose,” she says again, holding her groceries a little closer to her chest.

“Well, there you g --”

But Aramis never gets any farther than this, for he has suddenly gone extremely still, his eyes focused on something down the road. Constance, who is still trying to banish Laughing D’Artagnan out of her head, nearly runs right into him.

“Aramis?”

“Shh -- d’you here that?”

“Wha --” But Constance, too, feels her voice die in her throat, because somewhere in the wintery quiet of the side street leading back to the inn, there’s a muffled sound.

A muffled sound of a _child_ ’s crying.

“What on Earth,” begins Constance, in half an exhale, before the cry sounds again, this time far more distinct and recognizable:

“ _Lemme go -- ow, let me --_!”

“That’s Henri,” Constance hears Aramis say beside her, his voice carrying a hard, urgent edge.

"What?"

Henri -- _Henri_ Constance realizes. Seven-year-old Henri. In Aramis's class Henri. Small for his age and possessing a shock of red hair not unlike her own, Henri.

Constance whirls around to look at him. "You don't think --"

“That’s Henri,” Aramis repeats, this time in a gasp, and then, before Constance can get out anything more than a second, more alarmed “ _What_?!”, Aramis has taken off in a sprint down the road. Constance does not even stop to think that they are both still carrying her groceries before she makes a single distressed noise, bounces on the balls of her feet, and rockets off after him.

“Aramis!” Her feet keep slipping on the snowy sidewalk, and the cold air stings her cheeks. “Aramis, wait -- oh my _God_ \--”

“Help! Lemme _go_ , you’re _hurting_ me --!”

Constance has barely enough time to take in the scene in front of her as she rounds the bend: the iced up bus stop, surrounded by disrupted snow drifts; the shock of little Henri’s gingery hair, standing out against the white and grey; and the thick pair of arms trying to smother his cries and drag him off behind the stop at the same time, attached to a large brutish torso that Constance cannot help but feel is vaguely familiar.

“Hey! _Hey_ , _stop!_ ”

This is Aramis, careening into Constance’s field of vision, right before he drops the grocery bags and launches himself at the would-be child kidnappers. _Said_ child kidnappers have barely registered his presence when Constance feels the words rip themselves from her throat before she has time to think:

“Let him _go_ , you ghastly degenerates!”

Several things happen in very quick succession:

One -- the smaller brute holding Henri in a bad semblance of a choke-hold looks up in alarm, which swiftly transitions to confusion (Constance is sure she must look a sight, her bright hair falling out of her wool hat, feet slipping on the ground, and groceries clinking in her arms, hollering), and in this split second of distraction, Henri takes the opportunity to bite down, hard, on his hand.

Two -- Brute One howls, loosening his hold on Henri, and his friend Brute Two lets out a yell, whether at his companion’s injury or the fact that Aramis has slammed into him in a tackle (the tomatoes and canned peas from Constance’s groceries have scattered all over the snow), it can’t be known.

Three -- Constance skids to a stop inches away from Brute One and Henri, just as Brute One reaches out to grab Henri’s arm again. Henri, who has realized he is being rescued (sort of), has started yelling Aramis's name, the high-pitched "Monsieur d'Herblay, Monsieur d'Herblay!" mixing in with Constance's hollering and the haphazard grunting of Aramis and Brute Two. Constance is about to in turn blindly grab onto some _other_ part on Henri (his legs, perhaps), when there is the distinct sound of someone getting punched and a thick set of fingers grabs her upper arm, painfully.

Four -- Constance is forced to drop her groceries. This is a _terrible_ development.

Five -- and, perhaps, the tipping point of the whole interaction, there’s another loud grunt -- Aramis has grabbed Brute Two from behind, around the neck, the sounds of their scuffle apparent -- and the grip on Constance’s arm loosens, and Constance, operating on what she is sure later must be pure adrenaline, sees Aramis’s abandoned backpack in the snow, and Henri’s pale, freckled face, and Brute One’s angry grimace as he lunges for the little boy -- and, in one rushed, heady movement, she grabs the old backpack by its nearest strap and swings it, as hard as she can manage, at Brute One’s head.

The backpack makes contact with a rather satisfying _thunk_.

(This generous contribution is made by the previously-seen battered copy of _The Count of Monte Cristo_ , which Aramis had so fortuitously borrowed from the library only the week before.)

With a groan, the man stumbles backwards, slipping in the snow. He would have slammed into the side of the bus stop were it not for his companion’s rough grip yanking him to his feet and dragging him, stumbling, down the street and behind the buildings. 

Constance, breathing harder than she has in months, whirls around.

Henri is clinging to Aramis’s neck, wrapped in her friend’s tight embrace as the little boy trembles and hiccups quietly.

Aramis is staring at Constance with wide eyes, his hair in even greater disarray than before, the beginnings of a reddening bruise showing on his cheekbone.

The groceries are spread chaotically all over the ground. They looking like a crime scene, and Constance feels like her heart might jump right out of her chest.

Constance, who is still holding her improvised weaponry, blinks twice, very rapidly.

“Oh my God,” says Constance faintly, before Aramis’s backpack slips right out of her hands, landing directly into the snow drift at her feet with a muffled and somewhat ominous _thump_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i realize that after the first scene constance interacted with pretty much everyone BUT d'artagnan in this chapter but i swear there's good good stuff coming up. I do apologize for the length and slow pacing of this chapter, but plot/character/thematic development was necessary, dear friends.
> 
> some informational notes:  
> \- i have INTRODUCED the SETTING of the scene of the proverbial crime -- did you notice? i do love that nunnery  
> \- porthos did not get much screen time this chapter but he WILL have his time to shine very soon  
> \- the _the count of mote cristo_ easter eggs were very self-indulgent and more for the meta humor than anything (does dumas exist as an author in this universe? has he written the three musketeers? i cant tell you that), BUT, in case you have not read or watched the 2002 adaptation of the greatest of all dumas' bangers, aramis's quoting of abbe faria and anne's "poor mercedes" comment were the only two references. you don't really need to know much about those things outside of what anne and aramis said.  
> \- the song aramis is singing in the last scene is from a french musical called "le roi soleil" which i BELIEVE is actually about the reign of tmk's Baby -- but that song in particular is all about the forbidden love between a knight and a queen. sometimes i just go out of my way for the most iconic things, huh  
> \- finally, little henri is, of course (if you did not realize) agnes's baby from 1x06 "the exiles"


End file.
